
Class 



Book. 



/ 











* 



ION: 



A TRAGEDY, 



/ 



IN FIVE ACTS. 






THOMAS NOON TALFOURD. 



FfPST ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE, 26th MAY 1836. 



FOURTH EDITION 



TO WHICH ARE ADDED SONNETS. 



LONDON : 

EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 

1837. 






46157 




PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, 
RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET. 



NOTICE, 

INSTEAD OF DEDICATION. 



In offering this attempt at dramatic composition to the publie 
at large, I am mournfully reminded of an irreparable loss by 
the necessity of omitting a Dedication to one whose name 
should have graced its opening page. The two Editions 
which have been privately circulated were inscribed to my 
venerable and indulgent friend, Dr. Valpy, upon whose long 
life of kindness Death has since set the final seal. When I 
ventured to claim for it his protection, I well knew that 
I might rely upon that charity which lavished its bounties 
upon every effort of his pupils, for tenderness to its faults, 
and for generous praise of any merits which the eye of 
friendship might detect or create. There was also a pro- 
priety in seeking this association for a work which was 
prompted by love of those remains of antique beauty which 
he had taught me to know and to revere; which assumed 
that form of poetry in which he had chiefly delighted ; and 
which, although meditated in broken hours, and at long 



iv NO TJ C E. 

intervals, had always mingled with the recollections of those 
happy days, when he first awakened within me the sense 
of classical grace, and of those after-seasons, when the 
exquisite representations of Greek Tragedy, which he super- 
intended, made its images vital. He is gone to his rest, full 
of years and honours ; and I cannot receive from him that 
sanction which he cordially gave me when I presented this 
Drama to my friends, now that I submit it to the judgment 
of a wider and an impartial circle. Death, which har- 
monises the pictures of human character, found little in his 
to spiritualise or to soften ; but if it has not enhanced the 
feeling of his excellences in the minds of those who felt their 
influence, it has enabled them to express that feeling without 
the semblance of flattery. It has left them free, not only to 
expatiate on those well-directed labours which have faci- 
litated the access of the young to the elements of sound 
learning; on the solemn and persuasive tone of his pulpit 
eloquence ; on the steadiness of his attachment to principles 
adopted with caution, expressed with moderation, yet main- 
tained without a sigh at the cost of the emoluments and 
honours to which they were obstacles ; but also to revert to 
that remarkable kindness of disposition which was the secret 
but active law of his moral being. His nature was not 
ameliorated, nor even characterised, but wholly moulded of 
Christian love to a degree of entireness of which there are 
few examples. He had no sense of injury but as something 
to be forgiven. The liberal allowance which he extended to 
all human frailties grew more active when they affected his 



NOTICE. v 

own interests, and interfered with his own hopes; so that, 
however he might reprobate evil at a distance, as soon as 
it came within his sphere, he desired only to overcome Jj^by 
good. Envy, Hatred, and Malice, were to him mere names 
— like the figures of a speech in a schoolboy's theme, or the 
giants in a fairy tale — phantoms which never touched him 
with a sense of reality. His guileless simplicity of heart 
Was not preserved in learned seclusion, or by a constant / 
watchfulness over the development of youthful powers,- 
(for he found time to mingle frequently in the blameless 
gaieties and the stirring business of life,) but by the happy 
constitution of his own nature, which passion could rarely 
disturb, and evil had no power to stain. His system of 
education was animated by a portion of his own spirit : 
it was framed to enkindle and to quicken the best affections, 
and to render emulation itself subservient to the generous 
friendships which it promoted. His charity, in its compre- 
hensiveness, resembled nothing less than the imagination of 
the greatest of our poets, embracing every thing human ; 
shedding its light upon the just and the unjust ; detecting 
" the soul of goodness in things evil," and stealing rigidity 
from virtue ; bringing into gentle relief those truths which 
are of aspect the most benign, and those suggestions and 
hopes which are most full of consolation ; and attaching 
itself, in all the various departments of life, to individuals 
whose childhood it had fostered ; in whose merits its own 
images were multiplied ; or whose errors and sorrows supplied 
the materials of its most quick and genial action. The hold 



vi NOTICE. 

which the Reading-school boy had upon it could not be 
forfeited, not even " by slights, the worst of injuries ; " and 
when broken in fortune, deserted by relatives, and frowned 
on by the world, he had only to seek the hospitable roof of 
his old master — " claim kindred there, and have his claims 
allow'd." By the spirit of cordiality which breathed there, 
all party-differences were melted away, or, if perceived at all, 
served only to render tolerance more vivid ; and when he who 
had presided there for fifty years left the scene of his generous 
labours as a permanent abode, it was to diffuse the serenity 
of a good conscience and the warmth of unchilled affections 
through the homes of children who were made proud as well 
as happy by his presence. Such was he to the last, amidst 
the infirmities which accidents rather than age had accu- 
mulated around him; — the gentlest of monitors, and the 
most considerate of sufferers — until he was withdrawn from 
those whose minds he had nurtured ; one of whom, who 
has most cause for gratitude, pays this humble tribute to his 
memory. 

T. N. T. 
London, 26th May, 1836. 



PREFACE 



TO THE FOURTH PUBLISHED EDITION. 



The following Drama, as the readers of two Editions 
which were printed for private circulation are already 
aware, was composed and printed without any hope of its 
being found capable of representation on the stage. Its 
publication in its present form was cotemporary with 
its production on the night of Mr. Macready's benefit, 
26th of May, 1836; and as, at that time, its repetition 
was not anticipated, it was thought unnecessary to ac- 
company it with any Preface. But as its performance has 
since been attended with unexpected success both in this 
country and in America, I may, without impropriety, state 
the views with which it was written, and indulge myself in 
the expression of my gratitude to those by whose assist- 
ance it has thus far been rendered vital. The first of 
those purposes will be best accomplished by extracting 
a portion of the Preface to the earliest of the unpublished 
Editions, which bears date in April, 1835 : — 

" The title of this Drama is borrowed from the Tragedy 
of Euripides, which gave the first hint of the situation 



vin PREFACE. 

in which its hero is introduced — that of a foundling youth 
educated in a temple, and assisting in its services ; but 
otherwise there is no resemblance between this imperfect 
sketch and that exquisite picture. It has been written, 
not indeed without a view to an ideal stage, which should 
never be absent from the mind of the humblest aspirant to 
dramatic composition, but without any hope of rendering- 
it worthy to be acted. If it were regarded as a drama 
composed for actual representation, I am well aware that 
not in 'matter of form' only, but in 'matter of sub- 
stance,' it would be found wanting. The idea of the 
principal character, — that of a nature essentially pure and 
disinterested, deriving its strength entirely from goodness 
and thought, not overcoming evil by the force of will, 
but escaping it by an insensibility to its approach, — vividly 
conscious of existence and its pleasures, yet willing to lay 
them down at the call of duty,— is scarcely capable of 
being rendered sufficiently striking in itself, or of being 
subjected to such agitations, as tragedy requires in its 
heroes. It was further necessary, in order to involve such 
a character in circumstances which might excite terror or 
grief or joy, to introduce other machinery than that of 
passions working naturally within, or events arising from 
ordinary and probable motives without; as its own ele- 
ments would not supply the contests of tragic emotion, 
nor would its sufferings, however accumulated, present a 
varied or impressive picture. Recourse has therefore been 
had, not only to the old Grecian notion of Destiny, apart 
from all moral agencies, and to a prophecy indicating its 
purport in reference to the individuals involved in its 
chain, but to the idea of fascination, as an engine by 
which Fate may work its purposes on the innocent mind, 
and force it into terrible action most uncongenial to itself, 



PREFACE. ix 

but necessary to the issue. Either perhaps of these aids 
might have been permitted, if used in accordance with the 
entire spirit of the piece ; but the employment of both 
could not be justified in a drama intended for visual pre- 
sentation, in which a certain verisimilitude is essential to 
the faith of the spectator. Whether any groups, sur- 
rounded with the associations of the Greek Mythology, 
and subjected to the capricious laws of Greek super- 
stition, could be endowed by genius itself with such pre- 
sent life as to awaken the sympathies of an English 
audience, may well be doubted ; but it cannot be ques- 
tioned, that except by sustaining a stern unity of purpose, 
and breathing an atmosphere of Grecian sentiment over 
the whole, so as to render the picture national and co- 
herent in all its traits, the effect must be unsatisfactory 
and unreal. Conscious of my inability to produce a work 
thus justified to the imagination by its own completeness 
and power, I have not attempted it ; but have sought, out 
of mere weakness, for ' Fate and metaphysical aid,' to 
' crown withal ' the ordinary persons of a romantic play. 
I have therefore asked far too much for a spectator to 
grant : but the case is different with the reader who does 
not seek the powerful excitements of the theatre, nor 
is bound to a continuous attention ; and who, for the sake 
of scattered sentiments or expressions which may please 
him, may, at least by a latitude of friendly allowance, 
forgive the incongruities of the machinery by which the 
story is conducted. This Drama may be described as the 
phantasm of a tragedy, — not a thing of substance mortised 
into the living rock of humanity, — and therefore incapable 
of exciting that interest which grows out of human feeling, 
or of holding that permanent place in the memory, which 
truth only can retain. 



x PREFACE. 

" There are few perhaps among those who have written 
for the press, predominant as that majority now is over 
the minority, of mere readers, who have not, at some 
season of their lives, contemplated the achievement of a 
tragedy. The narrow and well-defined limits by which 
the action of tragedy is circumscribed — the various af- 
fections which may live, and wrestle, and suffer within 
those palpable boundaries — its appeal to the sources of 
grief common to humanity on the one hand, and to the 
most majestic shapings of the imagination on the other, 
softening and subduing the heart to raise and to ennoble 
it, — and perhaps, more than all, the vivid presentment of 
the forms in which the strengths and weaknesses of our 
nature are embodied, its calamities dignified, and its high 
destiny vindicated, even in the mortal struggle by which 
for a season it is vanquished, — may well impress every 
mind, reaching, however feebly, towards the creative, with 
a fond desire to imitate the great masters of its ' so potent 
art/ This desire has a powerful ally in the exuberant 
spirits of youth, when the mind, unchilled by the sad 
realities of life, searches out for novelty in those forms of 
sorrow, from which it afterwards may turn for relief to the 
flickerings of mirth, and to brief snatches of social plea- 
sure. Perhaps ' gorgeous tragedy ' left a deeper im- 
pression when she passed ' sweeping by ' my intellectual 
vision, than would have been otherwise received by a 
mind unapt for so high a correspondence, by reason of the 
accident that the glimpse was stolen. Denied by the 
conscientious scruples of friends an early acquaintance 
with plays, I had derived from Mrs. More's ' Sacred 
Dramas * my first sense of that peculiar enjoyment which 
the idea of dramatic action, however imperfectly con- 
veyed, gives ; and stiff and cumbrous as they now seem, I 



PREFACE. xi 

owe to their author that debt of gratitude, which others 
may perhaps share with me, who have first looked on the 
world of literature through the net- work of most sincere 
but exclusive opinions. These gave, however, but dim 
limits of the greatness which was behind ; — I looked into 
the domain of tragedy as into a mountain region covered 
with mist and cloud ; — and incapable of appreciating the 
deep humanities of Shakspeare, ' rested and expatiated ' 
in the brocaded grandeurs of Dryden, Rowe, and Ad- 
dison. To describe the delight with which, for the first 
time, I saw the curtain of Covent Garden Theatre raised 
for the representation of Cato, would be idle, — or how it 
was sustained during the noble performance which fol- 
lowed, when the visions of Roman constancy and classic 
grace, which had haunted the mind through all its school- 
boy years (then drawing to a close), seemed bodied forth 
in palpable form,— when the poor common-places of an 
artificial diction flowed ' mended from the tongue ' of the 
actor, and the thoughtful words trembling on his lips 
suggested at once the feeling of earthly weakness and of 
immortal hope, — and when the old Stoic, in his rigid 
grandeur, was reconciled to the human heart by the 
struggle of paternal love, and became * passioned as our- 
selves,' without losing any portion of that statue-like 
dignity which made him the representative of a world of 
heroic dreamings. 

" After this glimpse of the acted drama, I was long 
haunted by the idle wish to write a tragedy ; and many 
hours did I happily, but vainly, spend in sober con- 
templations of its theme. I tried to wreathe several 
romantic and impossible stories, which I fashioned in my 
evening walks into acts, and began to write a scene ; but 
however pleased I might be with the outline of these fan- 



xi i PREFACE. 

tasies, I was too much disgusted with the alternate bald- 
ness and fustian of the blank verse, which I produced in 
the attempt to execute them, to proceed. At this time 
also, just as the laborious avocations of my life were com- 
mencing, my taste and feeling, as applied to poetry, 
underwent an entire change, consequent on my becoming 
acquainted with the poetry of Wordsworth. That power 
which, slighted and scoffed at as it was then, has since 
exerted a purifying influence on the literature of this 
country, such as no other individual power has ever 
wrought ; which has not only given to the material uni- 
verse ' a speech and a language ' before unheard, but has 
opened new sources of enjoyment even in the works of 
the greatest poets of past days, and imparted a new sense 
by which we may relish them; — which, while on the one 
hand it has dissipated the sickly fascinations of gaudy 
phraseology, has, on the other, cast around the loveliest 
conditions a new and exquisite light, and traced out the 
links of good by which all human things are bound 
together, and clothed our earthly life in the solemnities 
which belong to its origin and its destiny — humbled the 
pride of my swelling conceits, and taught me to look on 
the mighty works of genius, not with the presumption of 
an imitator, but with the veneration of a child. For the 
early enjoyment of this great blessing, which the sneers of 
popular critics might otherwise have withheld from me for 
years, I am indebted to my friend Mr. Baron Field, now 
filling a judicial situation at Gibraltar, who overcame my 
reluctance to peruse what the e Edinburgh Review ' had 
so triumphantly derided. The love of contemplative 
poetry, thus inspired, led me, in such leisure as I could 
attain, rather to ponder over the resources of the pro- 
foundest emotions, or to regard them as associated with 



PREFACE. xm 

the majestic forms of the universe, than to follow them 
into their violent conflicts and mournful catastrophes ; and 
although I never ceased to regard the acted drama as the 
most delightful of recreations, I sought no longer to work 
out a frigid imitation of writers, whom alone I could hope 
to copy, and whose enchantments were dissipated by more 
genial magic. 

" But the tragic drama was about to revive amongst us, 
and I was not insensible to its progress. Although the 
tragedies of the last twelve years are not worthy to be 
compared with the noblest productions of the great age of 
our drama, they are, with two or three exceptions, far 
superior to any which had been written in the interval. 
Since the last skirts of the glory of Shakspeare's age dis- 
appeared, we shall search in vain for serious plays of 
equal power and beauty with Virginius, William Tell, 
Mirandola, Rieiizi, or the Merchant of London ; at least, 
if we except Venice Preserved for the admirable conduct 
of its story, and Douglas for that romantic tenderness and 
pathos which have been too little appreciated of late 
years. It happened to me to be intimately acquainted with 
all those who contributed to this impulse, and to take an 
immediate interest in their successes. I also enjoyed the 
friendship of the delightful artist to whom all have by 
turns been indebted for the realisation of their noblest 
conceptions, and was enabled to enjoy with more exquisite 
relish the home-born affection with which those were 
endued, and the poetical grain breathed around them, by 
finding the same influences shed by Mr. Macready over 
the sphere of his social and domestic life. It will not be 
surprising, that, to one thus associated, the old wish to 
accomplish something in dramatic shape should recur, 
not accompanied by the hopes of sharing in the scenic 



xiv PREFACE. 

triumphs of his friends, but bounded by the possibility of 
conducting a tale through dialogue to a close, and of 
making it subserve to the expression of some cherished 
thoughts. In this state of feeling, some years ago, the 
scheme of the drama of Ion presented itself to me ; and 
after brooding over it for some time, I wrote a prose out- 
line of its successive scenes, nearly in the order and to the 
effect in which they are now completed, and made some 
progress in an opening scene, of which little now remains. 
The attempt was soon laid aside ; for I found the com- 
position of dramatic blank verse even more difficult now 
that I had present to me the ease and vividness of my 
friends, than when I had been contented to emulate the 
ponderous lines of the dramatists of Garrick's age. Still 
the idea of my hero occurred to me often ; I found my 
pleasantest thoughts gathering about him ; and rather 
more than two years ago I determined to make one essay 
more. Since that time such seasons of leisure as I could 
find have been devoted to the work ; but I had so great 
distrust of my ability to complete it, that I did not mention 
my design to any one ; and I cannot charge myself with 
having permitted it to interfere with any professional or 
private duty. It has been chiefly written in scraps of 
time ; composed for the most part on journeys, and after- 
wards committed to paper ; and thus, at the close of last 
year, I found four acts reduced into form. At this time, 
the sudden realisation of another youthful dream opened 
to me the prospect of additional duties, which I knew full 
well ought to preclude the continuance of those secret 
flirtations with the Muse in which I had indulged ; and 
therefore I resolved to make a last effort, and, by com- 
pleting my Drama before those duties should commence, 
to free myself from the bondage of those threads of fan- 



PREFACE. xv 

tastical interest which had woven themselves about my 
mind. I accordingly wrote the fifth act with far more 
rapidity than any of the previous passages of my play ; 
and, before I was called upon to share in more mo- 
mentous business, I had communicated to a few friends 
the result of my scribblings, and bade adieu to my dra- 
matic endeavours and hopes. 

" But it may well be asked, Why, with the sense I have 
of the feebleness of this poetical sketch, I have ventured 
to intrude it on my friends ? My chief reason is, that I am 
anxious to cast from my own mind the associations which 
have hung about it during the composition of the poem, 
and which, while it remained in manuscript susceptible 
of alteration, I could not certainly hope for ; and, further, 
to preclude the charge, (if it should ever be brought 
to light hereafter,) that it had occupied leisure which 
henceforth must be devoted to other studies. I have also 
a desire to gratify myself by presenting it to my friends, 
especially to those who are removed to a distance ; be- 
cause, although as a drama it is unw 7 orthy the attention of 
the world, yet, as containing thoughts which have passed 
through my own mind, it may be acceptable to those 
whose conversation I can no longer enjoy. It would be a 
sufficient reason to myself for printing it, that I shall be 
able thus to remind Sir Edward Ryan, now, most honour- 
ably to himself and happily for India, Chief Justice of 
Bengal, and his excellent colleague Sir Benjamin Malkin, 
of the delightful hours we have spent together on the 
Oxford Circuit, when life was younger with us, and when 
some of the topics they will find just touched on in these 
verses were the themes of our graver walks between Ross 
and Monmouth, or in the deep winding valleys indenting 
the Table-Land above Church Stretton, or haply by 



xvi PREFACE. 

moonlight in the churchyard of Ross. I take leave to 
mention these as far away ; but there are others of my 
fellow-labourers at home, whose sympathy and whose 
conversation have cheered my professional life, who I 
believe will receive it cordially ;- and among them I hope 
my sometimes Sessions-leader, who has committed a 
similar offence, though with more extenuating circum- 
stances, by investing with so much dignity of passion and 
richness of language the story of the Countess of Essex, 
will not disdain it." 

With these views Ion was sent to the press, and pre- 
sented to many of my friends. The favour with which it 
was received by some, whose approbation was most valu- 
able, would have induced me at once to publish it, if I had 
not been withheld by the suggestion of Mr. Macready, that 
it would be effective in representation, and by the belief 
that any interest which might be excited by such an 
attempt would be lessened by its previous sale. The 
prospect, that, at least for one evening, the dull tracery 
of thought, silently and laboriously woven, might burst 
into light at the torch of sympathy, and become palpable 
to the senses and the affections of a multitude, was too 
delightful to be resigned, and was ultimately realised by 
the friend who had opened it. His consent to produce 
the Drama on the night of his benefit, secured it against 
painful repulse ; and, although I had still no expectation 
that even he could endue it with sufficient interest to 
render it attractive on ordinary occasions, I looked for- 
ward to its single representation in the belief that it would 
be tolerated by an audience disposed to be gratified, and 
that the impression it might leave, however faint, would 
be genial and pure. Many of those who had expressed 
the most favourable opinions of the piece as a com- 



PREFACE. xvu 

position were even less sanguine than myself as to the 
probable event of the evening, and apprehended that it 
would terminate in their mortification and my own. They 
did not perceive the possibility of infusing such life into 
the character of its youthful hero, as would bring the 
whole fable within the sphere of human sympathies; 
reconcile the audience to its machinery ; and render that 
which seemed only consistent in its dreaminess, at once 
entire and real. Such was, however, unquestionably the 
effect of Mr. Macready's performance on that evening, 
which I believe, in the judgment of many who cannot be 
influenced like the author by personal regard or individual 
gratitude, was one of the most remarkable triumphs of art 
which has graced the stage of late years. Although other 
of his performances are abstractedly greater, none I 
believe approach this as an effort of art, estimated with 
reference to the nature of the materials which he ani- 
mated, to the difficulties which he subdued, and to the 
preconceptions which he charmed away. By the graces of 
beautiful elocution he beguiled the audience to receive 
the Drama as belonging to a range of associations which 
are no longer linked with the living world, but which 
retain an undying interest of a gentler cast, as a thing 
which might have been ; and then, by his fearful power of 
making the fantastic real, he gradually rendered the 
whole possible — probable— true ! The consequence of 
this extraordinary power of vivifying the frigid, and fami- 
liarising the remote, was to dissipate the fears of my 
friends; to render the play an object of attraction during 
the short remainder of the season ; and to embolden 
others to attempt the part, and encourage other audiences 
to approve it, even when the power which first gave it 
sanction was wanting. 

b 



xvin PREFACE 

How little it was anticipated that the success of the 
first performance would justify its repetition may be 
gathered from the Prologue, which was spoken on that 
occasion by Mr. Serle — a gentleman, whose earnest and 
laborious pursuit of excellence as a dramatic poet and 
an actor, from early youth I have watched with admi- 
ration ; whose success I have hailed with delight ; and 
through whom I was most happy to express my feelings. 



" What airy visions on a play's first night 
Have flash'd refulgent here on poet's sight ! 
While, emulous of glory's stainless wreath, 
He felt ' the future in the instant ' breathe ; 
Saw in the soften'd gleam of radiant eyes 
The sacred tear through lids yet tearless rise ; 
Made to each fervid heart the greet appeal 
To bear him witness — stamp'd with living seal — 
Of passion into forms of grandeur wrought, 
And grief by beauty tinged, or raised by thought : 
As cordial hands their liberal boon conferr'd, 
Fame's awful whisper in the distance heard, 
Now shrunk from nicest fear, from fancied scorn, — 
Now glow'd with hope for ' ages yet unborn.' 

" With no such trembling sense of inward power 
Our author seeks to win his little hour, 
While, for a transient glance, he dares unveil 
The feeble outlines of a Grecian tale. 
He boasts no magic skill your souls to draw 
Within the circle of Athenian awe ; 
Where Fate on all things solemn beauty throws, 
And shapes heroic mourn in stern repose ; 
Or to reveal the fame where genius tips 
With love's immortal lustre heavenly lips, 



PREFACE. xix 

Where airs divine yet breathe around forms so fair, 

That Time enamour'd has been charm'd to spare ; 

Nor his the power which deeds of old imbues 

With present life, and tints with various hues ; 

Casts glowing passion in heroic moulds, 

And makes young feelings burn 'neath ancient folds : 

Unlearn'd in arts like these, he seeks to cast 

One faint reflection from the glorious past ; 

A narrow space his fond ambition bounds, — 

His little scenic life this evening rounds ! 

u O ! if some image pure a moment play 
O'er the soul's mirror ere it pass away ; 
If from some chance-sown thought a genial nerve 
Should, heart-strung, quicken virtue's cause to serve ; 
Let these slight gifts the breath of kindness claim 
For one night's bubble on the sea of fame, 
Which tempts no aid which future praise insures, — 
But lives — glows — trembles — and expires in yours ! " 

The part of the heroine, which affords too little scope 
for the development of tragic power, was on this night 
graced by the elegance and the pathos of Miss Ellen 
Tree, which, as personated on that night, will long be 
perpetuated by the genius and taste of Mr. Lane. As 
her engagements at the Haymarket rendered it impos- 
sible for her to repeat the character at Covent Garden, 
the Drama was indebted to the zeal and good-nature of 
Miss Helen Faucit for accepting it under these peculiar 
circumstances, and studying it within a few days, and to 
her talent for giving to it an importance which the author 
could not hope for from the faintness of its outline. Its 
subsequent production at the Haymarket calls for a 
sincere acknowledgment to Mr. Morris, the veteran 



xx PREFACE. 

manager of that delightful place of entertainment, and to 
all the members of his company, especially to Mr. Van- 
denhoff for his kingly personation of Adrastus ; to Miss 
Taylor for her earnest and affecting Clemanthe ; and, 
most of all, to the original representative of the heroine, 
who now illustrated the hero, and who has made the story 
of his sufferings and his virtues familiar to Transatlantic 
ears. Who is there who does not feel proud of the just 
appreciation, by the great American people, of one who is 
not only the exquisite representative of a range of de- 
lightful characters, but of all that is most graceful and 
refined in English womanhood, — or fail to cherish a wish 
for her fame and happiness, as if she were a personal 
friend or relation of his own ? 

There is one circumstance attendant on the circulation 
of this Drama, which has afforded me peculiar grati- 
fication—that it has been read without disapproval by 
many of those estimable persons whose conscientious 
scruples withhold them from the theatre, and has won 
some of them to confess that there is nothing in the form 
of dramatic poetry necessarily akin to guilty passions and 
ignoble aims. I am well aware, that it is indebted for this 
fortune not to any tone of moral feeling superior to that 
which is to be felt in its more powerful cotemporaries, 
but to the incidental relations of its author, and to the 
manner of its original distribution ; and I refer to it, 
therefore, with pleasure rather than with pride. If such 
as these are still deterred from sharing in the refined 
enjoyments of the acted drama, and from permitting 
their children to receive from it the vivid impressions 
which it leaves, by a just fear of the accidental influences 
with which it has been too frequently associated, they 
may be assured that an opportunity is now offered to them 



PREFACE. xxi 

of accepting the benefit without the alloy. They will find 
one of those great theatres — where alone the mightiest 
effects of heroic action and suffering can ever be felt, 
or their greatness fitly presented, — under the direction of 
an artist whose personal worth might grace any pro- 
fession or rank, and who, in seeking to dissipate the lan- 
guor which has crept over the general heart in reference to 
the stage, at the sacrifice of his own health and ease, and 
the risk of his well-earned fortune, has had the virtue and 
the courage to cast away all vicious appliances, and to 
discourage every blandishment except those by which Art 
embodies the conceptions of Genius. To Covent Garden 
Theatre the sternest moralist may now conduct those 
whose moral nurture he regards as his most anxious and 
most delightful duty, without fear lest their minds should 
be diverted from the blameless gaieties or noble passion 
of the scene by intrusive suggestions of vice, which he 
would skreen, as far as possible, from their thoughts. If, 
indeed, dramatic representation itself is essentially evil ; if 
it is a crime to render historic truths more vivid by calling 
forth its august figures from the depth of time and the 
silence of books, ' in their habits as they lived ;' if it is 
a sin to displace the vapidity of conversation, revolving in 
its own small circle of personal experiences, by presenting 
the genial eccentricities of character to be at once laughed 
at and loved, and imaging the graces of society without 
its bitterness ; if it is an offence against the Beneficent 
Author of our Being * to hold a mirror up ' to the nature 
he has moulded, in which its grandest and its fairest 
varieties shall be reflected in the happiest combinations, 
as that choicest of all His human works — a poet's soul — 
has cast them ; the attempts to remove from the magic 
glass all external impurities must be fruitless. But if 



xxn PREFACE. 

there are those who, while they hold the faith and morals 
of Milton, are not afraid to accept his precept and to 
follow his example, I would entreat of them to assist the 
lessee of a great national theatre in his generous struggle 
to rescue the stage from the pollutions which have too 
long debased it. I urge this on them thus earnestly, 
because, in proportion as the dissipated and frivolous have 
withdrawn from this intellectual enjoyment, it becomes 
their province to sustain it ; because I firmly believe that 
its maintenance is most important to the expansion of all 
that is social, and to the nurture of all that is great within 
us ; because I deem it — not as an instructor in the way of 
direct moral invitation or purpose — but as dissolving the 
crust of selfishness which daily cares and labours gra- 
dually form about the kindest hearts ; as softening the 
pride of conventional virtue, and bringing the outcasts of 
humanity within its sphere ; and as combining all the 
picturesque varieties which external distinctions present 
with the sense of the noble equality which lies beneath 
them. If the introduction of this Drama to the notice 
of some who have hitherto abstained from visiting the 
theatre by objection to extrinsic circumstances, should 
induce them to enjoy the representation of plays of far 
deeper sentiment and far more vivid passion, it will not 
have been written nor acted in vain. 

T. N. T. 
London, 14th November, 1837. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 



AS REPRESENTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. 



Adrastus, King of Argos, 

Medox, { H i f h A P o r 1 ^ St ° f the Temple 

Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard, 

Phocion, son of Medon, 

Ctesiphon, 1 i i a • xl 

Cassandek, } ™ble Argive youths, 

Ion, 

Agenor, "I 

Cleon, > sages of Argos, 

Timocles, J 

Irus, a boy, slave to Agenor, 
Clemanthe, daughter of Medon, 
Abra, attendant on Clemanthe, 



f Mr. Dale, 
\Mr. Vandenhoff. 



} 



Mr. Thompson. 



(Mr. C. Hill, 
\ Mr. Roberts. 

Mr. G. Bennett. 

CMr.H Wallack, 

< Mr. J. Webster. 
[Mr. Howard. 

Mr. Macready. 

CMr. Pritchard. 

< Mr. Tilbury. 
[Mr. Harris. 

Miss Lane. 

f Miss Ellen Tree, 
\ Miss H. Faucit. 

Miss Lacy. 



Scene — Argos. 

The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and night 
and the following morning. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA, 



AS REPRESENTED AT THE HAYMARKET THEATRE. 



Adrastus, King of Argos, 

Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard, 

, T f High Priest of the Ten 

Medon, J J Apoll0j 

Phocion, son of Medon, 

^ T ' > noble Arrive youths, 

Cassander, J & J 

Ion, 



Agenor, 
Cleon 

TlMOCLES 



■"' } 

LES, J 



sages of Argos, 



Irus, a boy, slave to Agenor, 
Clemanthe, daughter of Medon, 
A bra, attendant on Clemanthe, 



{Mr. Vandenhoff, 
Mr. Elton. 

Mr. Yarnold. 
j Mr. Selby. 

Mr. J. Vining. 

{Mr. Vining. 
Mr. Saville. 

Miss Ellen Tree. 

f Mr. Haines. 
< Mr. Gough. 
[Mr. GalloU 

Miss E. Phillips. 

Miss Taylor. 

Miss Gordon, 






ION; 

A TRAGEDY. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is supposed 
to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early morning. 
The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended from 
the roof Agenor resting against a column; — Irus 
seated on a bench at the side of the scene. 

Agenor comes forward and speaks. 

AGENOR. 

Will the dawn never visit us ? These hours 

Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear 

To do the work of desolating years ! 

All distant sounds are hush'd ; — the shriek of death 

And the survivors' wail are now unheard, 

As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus ! 

A 



2 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

I 'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest, 
But my heart sickens for the tardy morn ; 
Sure it is breaking ; — speed and look — yet hold, 
Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs 
Above the encroaching waves, the loftiest point 
That stretches eastward ? 

TRUS. 

Know it ? Yes, my Lord ; 
There often have I bless'd the opening day, 
Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste 
In happy wandering through the forests. 

AGENOR. 

Well, 
Thou art not then afraid to tread it ; there 
The earliest streak from the unrisen sun 
Is to be welcomed ; — tell me how it gleams, 
In bloody portent or in saffron hope, 
And hasten back to slumber. 

IRUS. 

I shall hasten : 
Believe not that thy summons broke my rest ; 
I was not sleeping. [Exit Irus. 

agenor. 
Heaven be with thee, child ! 
His grateful mention of delights bestow'd 
On that most piteous state of servile childhood 
By liberal words chance-dropp'd, hath touch'd a vein 
Of feeling which I deem'd for ever numb'd, 
And, by a gush of household memories, breaks 



scene !.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 

The icy casing of that thick despair 

Which day by day hath gather'd o'er my heart, 

While, basely safe, within this column'd circle, 

Uplifted far into the purer air 

And by Apollo's partial love secured, 

I have, in spirit, glided with the Plague 

As in foul darkness or in sickliest light 

It wafted death through Argos ; and mine ears, 

Listening athirst for any human sound, 

Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain, 

Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind 

Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale 

Wliere life was. 

Re-enter Irus. 
Are there signs of day-break ? 
irus. 

None ; 
The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. 

AGENOR. 

It cannot surely be. Thine eyes are dim 
(No fault of thine) for want of rest, or now 
I look upon them near, with scalding tears. 
Hath care alighted on a head so young ! 
What grief hast thou been weeping ? 

IRUS. 

Pardon me ; 
I never thought at such a mournful time 
To plead my humble sorrow in excuse 
Of poorly-render'd service : but my brother — 



4 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Thou mayst have noted him, — a sturdy lad, 

With eye so merry and with foot so light 

That none could chide his gamesomeness — fell sick 

But yesterday, and died in my weak arms 

Ere I could seek for stouter aid : I hoped 

That I had taught my grief to veil its signs 

From thy observant care ; but when I stood 

Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, 

Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails — 

His favourite pastime, for he burn'd to share 

A seaman's hardy lot, — my tears would flow, 

And I forgot to dry them. But I see 

Cleon is walking yonder ; let me call him ; 

For sure 'twill cheer thy heart to speak with him. 

AGENOR. 

Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, 

Or, if thou wilt, to weep. [Exit Irus. 

I envy thee 
The privilege, but Jupiter forfend 
That I should rob thee of it ! 

Enter Cleon. 

cleon. 

Hail, Agenor ! 
Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet 
To find thy age unstricken. 

AGENOR. 

Rather mourn 
That I am destined still to linger here 



scene i.J ION; A TRAGEDY. 

In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me. 

I chide these sinews that are framed so tough 

Grief cannot palsy them ; I chide the air 

Which round this citadel of nature breathes 

With sweetness not of this world ; I would share 

The common grave of my dear countrymen, 

And sink to rest while all familiar things 

Old custom has endear'd are failing with me, 

Rather than shiver on in life behind them : 

Nor should these walls detain me from the paths 

Where death may be embraced, but that my word, 

In a rash moment plighted to our host, 

Forbids me to depart without his license, 

Which firmly he refuses. 

CLEON. 

Do not chide me 
If I rejoice to find the generous Priest 
Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve 
The treasure of thy wisdom ; — nay, he trusts not 
To promises alone ; his gates are barr'd i $ 

Against thy egress : — none, indeed, may pass them 
Save the youth Ion, to whose earnest prayer 
His foster-father grants reluctant leave 
To visit the sad city at his will : 
And freely does he use the dangerous boon, 
Which, in my thought, the love that cherish'd him, 
Since he was found within the sacred grove 
Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant, 
Should have had sternness to deny. 



6 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act I 

AGRNOR. 

What, Ion 
The only inmate of this fane allow 'd 
To seek the mournful walks where death is busy ! — 
Ion our sometime darling, whom we prized 
As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismiss'd 
From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud 
To make the happy happier ! Is he sent 
To grapple with the miseries of this time, 
Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears 
As it would perish at the touch of wrong ? 
By no internal contest is he train'd 
For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 
Hath his clear spirit vanquish'd ; — Love, the germ 
Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth, 
Expanding with its progress, as the store 
Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals 
Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, 
To flush and circle in the flower. No tear 
Hath fill'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy 
When, in the evening stillness, lovely things 
Press'd on his soul too busily ; his voice, 
If, in the earnestness of childish sports, 
Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force, 
As if it fear'd to break its being's law, 
And falter'd into music ; when the forms 
Of guilty passion have been made to live 
In pictured speech, and others have wax'd loud 
In righteous indignation, he hath heard 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 

With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein 
Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd, 
Struck sunlight o'er it : so his life hath flow'd 
From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, 
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 
Alone are mirror'd ; which, though shapes of ill 
May hover round its surface, glides in light, 
And takes no shadow from them. 

cleon. 

Yet, methinks, 
Thou hast not lately met him, or a change 
Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder. 
His form appears dilated ; in those eyes 
Where pleasure danced, a thoughtful sadness dwells ; 
Stern purpose knits the forehead, which till now 
Knew not the passing wrinkle of a care : 
Those limbs which in their heedless motion own'd 
A stripling's playful happiness, are strung 
As if the iron hardships of the camp 
Had given them sturdy nurture ; and his step, 
Its airiness of yesterday forgotten, 
Awakes the echoes of these desolate courts, 
As if a hero of gigantic mould 
Paced them in armour. 

AGENOR. 

Hope is in thy tale. 
This is no freak of Nature's wayward course, 
But work of pitying Heaven ; for not in vain 
The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart 



8 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i 

The strengths that nerve the hero ; — they are. ours. 

CLEON. 

How can he aid us ? Can he stay the pulse 
Of ebbing life, — arrest the infected winds, 
Or smite the hungry spectre of the grave ? 

AGENOR. 

And dost thou think these breezes are our foes, — 
The innocent airs that used to dance around us, 
As if they felt the blessings they convey'd, 
Or that the death they bear is casual 1 No ! 
Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud, 
Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, 
Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air, 
Turns all the joyous melodies of earth 
To murmurings of doom. There is a foe 
Who in the glorious summit of the state 
Draws down the great resentment of the gods, 
Whom he defies to strike us ; — yet his power 
Partakes that just infirmity which Nature 
Blends in the empire of her proudest sons — 
That it is cased within a single breast, 
And may be pluck'd thence by a single arm. 
Let but that arm, selected by the gods, 
Do its great office on the tyrant's life, 
And Argos breathes again ! 

CLEON. 

A footstep ! — hush ! 
Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear, 
Would tempt another outrage : 'tis a friend— 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 9 

An honest though a crabbed one — Timocles : 
Something hath ruffled him. — Good day, Timocles ! 

[Timocles passes in front. 
He will not speak to us. 

AGENOR. 

But he shall speak. 
Timocles — nay then, thus I must enforce thee ; 

[staying him. 
Sure thou wilt not refuse a comrade's hand 
That may be cold ere sunset. 

timocles. [giving his hand. 

Thou mayst school me ; 
Thy years and love have license : but I own not 
A stripling's mastery ; is 't fit, Agenor ? 

AGENOR. 

Nay, thou must tell thy wrong ; whate'er it prove, 

I hail thy anger as a hopeful sign, 

For it revives the thought of household days, 

When the small bickerings of friends had space 

To fret, and Death was not for ever nigh 

To frown upon Estrangement. What has moved thee ? 

TIMOCLES. 

I blush to tell it. Weary of the night 

And of my life, I sought the western portal : 

It opened, when ascending from the stair 

That through the rock winds spiral from the town, 

Ion, the foundling cherish 'd by the Priest, 

Stood in the entrance : with such mild command 

As he has often smilingly obey'd, 



10 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

I bade him stand aside and let me pass ; 

When — wouldst thou think it? — in determined speech 

He gave me counsel to return ; I press 'd 

Impatient onward : he, with honied phrase 

His daring act excusing, grasp'd my arm 

With strength resistless ; led me from the gate ; 

Replaced its ponderous bars ; and, with a look 

As modest as he wore in childhood, left me. 

AGENOR. 

And thou wilt thank him for it soon ; he comes — 
Now hold thy angry purpose if thou canst ! 

Enter Ion. 
ion. 
I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore 
Again thy pardon. I am young in trust, 
And fear lest, in the earnestness of love, 
I stayed thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne 
My childish folly often,— do not frown 
If I have ventured with unmanner'd zeal 
To guard the ripe experiences of years 
From one rash moment's danger. 

TIMOCLES. 

Leave thy care. 
If I am weary of the flutterer life, 
Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in ? 

ION. 

And art thou tired of being ? Has the grave 
No terrors for thee ? Hast thou sunder'd quite 



scenei.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 11 

Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves 

To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films 

With airy lustre various ? Hast subdued 

Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison, 

Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories, 

That change the valour of the thoughtful breast 

To brave dissimulation of its fears ? 

Is Hope quench'd in thy bosom ? Thou art free, 

And in the simple dignity of man 

Standest apart untempted : — do not lose 

The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery, 

Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, 

But use it nobly ! 

TIMOCLES. 

What, to strike ? to slay ? 

ION. 

No ! — not unless the audible voice of Heaven 

Call thee to that dire office ; but to shed 

On ears abused by falsehood, truths of power 

In words immortal, — not such words as flash 

From the fierce demagogue's unthinking rage, 

To madden for a moment and expire,— 

Nor such as the rapt orator imbues 

With warmth of facile sympathy, and moulds 

To mirrors radiant with fair images, 

To grace the noble fervour of an hour ; — 

But words which bear the spirits of great deeds 

Wing'd for the Future ; which the dying breath 

Of Freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales, 



12 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

And to the most enduring forms of earth 

Commits — to linger in the craggy shade 

Of the huge valley, 'neath the eagle's home, 

Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps, 

Till some heroic leader bid them wake 

To thrill the world with echoes ! — But I talk 

Of things above my grasp, which strangely press 

Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget 

The duties of my youth ; — pray you forgive me. 

TIMOCLES. 

Have I not said so ? 

AGENOR. 

Welcome to the morn ! 

The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches ; 

[As Age nor speaks, the great gates at the back of the 
scene open ; the sea is discovered far beneath, — the 
dawn breaking over it; Medon, the Priest, enters 
attended.] 

And lo ! the sun is struggling with the gloom, 

Whose masses fill the eastern sky, and tints 

Its edges with dull red ; — but he will triumph ; 

Bless'd be the omen ! 

MEDON. 

God of light and joy, 
Once more delight us with thy healing beams ! 
If I may trace thy language in the clouds 
That wait upon thy rising, help is nigh — 
But help achieved in blood. 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 13 

ION. 

Sayst thou in blood ? 

MEDON. 

Yes, Ion ! — why, he sickens at the word, 
Spite of his new-born strength ; — the sights of woe 
That he will seek have shed their paleness on him. 
Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow ? 

ION. 

I pass'd the palace where the frantic king 
Yet holds his crimson revel, whence the roar 
Of desperate mirth came, mingling with the sigh 
Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam 
Of festal lamps mid spectral columns hung 
Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish made them ghastlier. 
How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones 
He mocks — and him the wretchedest of all ? 

T1MOCLES. 

And canst thou pity him ? Dost thou discern, 
Amidst his impious darings, plea for him ? 

ION. 

Is he not childless, friendless, and a king ? 

He 's human ; and some pulse of good must live 

Within his nature — have ye tried to wake it ? 

MEDON. 

Yes ; I believe he felt our sufferings once ; 
When, at my strong entreaty, he dispatched 
Phocion my son to Delphos, there to seek 
Our cause of sorrow ; but, as time dragg'd on 
Without his messenger's return, he grew 



14 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Impatient of all counsel, — to his palace 
In awful mood retiring, wildly calPd 
The reckless of his court to share his stores 
And end all with him. When we dared disturb 
His dreadful feastings with a humble prayer 
That he would meet us, the poor slave, who bore 
The message, flew back smarting from the scourge, 
And mutter'd a decree that he who next 
Unbidden met the tyrant's glance should die. 

AGENOR. 

I am prepared to brave it. 

CLEON. 

So am I. 

TIMOCLES. 

And I— 

ION. 

O Sages, do not think my prayer 
Bespeaks unseemly forwardness — send me ! 
The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh, 
If Heaven select it for its instrument, 
May shed celestial music on the breeze 
As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold 
Befits the lip of Phoebus ; — ye are wise, 
And needed by your country ; ye are fathers ; 
I am a lone stray thing, whose little life 
By strangers' bounty cherish'd, like a wave 
That from the summer sea a wanton breeze 
Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside 
Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking. 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 15 

MEDON. 

Ion, no sigh ! 

ION. 

Forgive me if I seem'd 
To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall ; 
Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear, 
But that high promptings, which could never rise 
Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead 
Thus boldly for the mission. 

MEDON. 

My brave boy ! 
It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art call'd 
To this great peril, and I will not stay thee. 
When wilt thou be prepared to seek it ? 

ION. 

Now. 
Only before I go, thus, on my knee, 
Let me in one word thank thee for a life 
Made by thy love a cloudless holiday ; 
And O, my more than father ! let me look 
Up to thy face as if indeed a father's, 
And give me a son's blessing. 

MEDON. 

Bless thee, son ! 
I should be marble now ; let 's part at once. 

ION. 

If I should not return, bless Phocion from me ^ 
And, for Clemanthe — may I speak one word, 
One parting word with my fair playfellow ? 



16 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

MEDON. 

If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt. 

ION. 

Farewell then! 
Your prayers wait on my steps. The arm of Heaven 
I feel in life or death will be around me. [Exit. 

MEDON. 

O grant it be in life ! Let 's to the sacrifice. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

An apartment of the Temple. Enter Clem a nth e 
followed by A bra. 

clemanthe. 
Is he so changed ? 

ABRA. 

His bearing is so alter'd, 
That, distant, I scarce knew him for himself; 
But, looking in his face, I felt his smile 
Gracious as ever, though its sweetness wore 
Unwonted sorrow in it. 

CLEMANTHE. 

He will go 
To some high fortune, and forget us all, 
Reclaim 'd (be sure of it) by noble parents ; 
Me he forgets already ; for five days, 
Five melancholy days, I have not seen him. 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 17 

ABRA. 

Thou knowest that he has privilege to range 
The infected city ; and, 'tis said, he spends 
The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels 
Where death is most forsaken. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Why is this ? 
Why should my father, niggard of the lives 
Of aged men, be prodigal of youth 
So rich in glorious prophecy as his ? 

ABRA. 

He comes to answer for himself. I '11 leave you. [Exit. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best 
By its own strength. 

Enter Ion. 
ion. 
How fares my pensive sister ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

How should I fare but ill when the pale hand 
Draws the black foldings of the eternal curtain 
Closer and closer round us — Phocion absent — 
And thou, forsaking all within thy home, 
Wilt risk thy life with strangers, in whose aid 
Even thou canst do but little ? 

ION. 

It is little : 
But in these sharp extremities of fortune, 



18 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act! 

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter 

Have their own season. Tis a little thing 

To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 

Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, 

May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 

More exquisite than when nectarean juice 

Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. 

It is a little thing to speak a phrase 

Of common comfort which by daily use 

Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear 

Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 'twill fall 

Like choicest music ; fill the glazing eye 

With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand 

To know the bonds of fellowship again ; 

And shed on the departing soul a sense 

More precious than the benison of friends 

About the honor'd death-bed of the rich, 

To him who else were lonely, that another 

Of the great family is near and feels. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Oh, thou canst never bear these mournful offices ! 
So blithe, so merry once ! Will not the sight 
Of frenzied agonies unfix thy reason, 
Or the dumb woe congeal thee ? 

ION. 

No, Clemanthe ; 
They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest ! 
If thou hadst seen the warrior when he writhed 
In the last grapple of his sinewy frame 



scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 19 

With conquering anguish, strive to cast a smile 
(And not in vain) upon his fragile wife, 
Waning beside him, — and, his limbs composed, 
The widow of the moment fix her gaze 
Of longing, speechless love, upon the babe, 
The only living thing which yet was hers, 
Spreading its arms for its own resting-place, 
Yet with attenuated hand wave off 
The unstricken child, and so embraceless die, 
Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart; 
Thou couldst endure the sight of selfish grief 
In sullenness or frenzy ; — but to-day 
Another lot falls on me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou wilt leave us ! 
I read it plainly in thy alter'd mien ; — 
Is it for ever ? 

ION. 

That is with the gods ! 
I go but to the palace, urged by hope, 
Which from afar hath darted on my soul, 
That to the humbleness of one like me 
The haughty king may listen. 

CLEMANTHE. 

To the palace ! 
Knowest thou the peril — nay the certain issue 
That waits thee ? Death ! — The tyrant has decreed it, 
Confirmed it with an oath ; and he has power 
To keep that oath ; for, hated as he is, 



•20 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i, 

The reckless soldiers who partake his riot 
Are swift to do his bidding. 

ION. 

I know all ; 
But they who call me to the work can shield me, 
Or make me strong to suffer. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Then the sword 
Falls on thy neck ! O Gods ! to think that thou, 
Who in the plenitude of youthful life 
Art now before me, ere the sun decline, 
Perhaps in one short hour shall lie cold, cold, 
To speak, smile, bless no more ! — Thou shalt not go ! 

ION. 

Thou must not stay me, fair one ; even thy father, 
Who (blessings on him !) loves me as his son, 
Yields to the will of Heaven. 

CLEMANTHE. 

And he can do this ! 
I shall not bear his presence if thou fallest 
By his consent ; so shall I be alone. 

ION. 

Phocion will soon return, and juster thoughts 
Of thy admiring father close the gap 
Thy old companion left behind him. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Never ! 
What will to me be father, brother, friends, 
When thou art gone — the light of our life quench 'd — 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 21 

Haunting like spectres of departed joy 
The home where thou wert dearest ? 

ION. 

Thrill me not 
With words that, in their agony, suggest 
A hope too ravishing, — or my head will swim, 
And my heart faint within me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Has my speech 
Such blessed power ? I will not mourn it then, 
Though it hath told a secret I had borne 
Till death in silence : — how affection grew 
To this, I know not ; — day succeeded day, 
Each fraught with the same innocent delights, 
Without one shock to ruffle the disguise 
Of sisterly regard which veil'd it well, 
Till thy changed mien reveaPd it to my soul, 
And thy great peril makes me bold to tell it. 
Do not despise it in me ! 

ION. 

With deep joy 
Thus I receive it. Trust me, it is long 
Since I have learn'd to tremble midst our pleasures, 
Lest I should break the golden dream around me 
With most ungrateful rashness. I should bless 
The sharp and perilous duty which hath press'd 
A life's deliciousness into these moments, — 
Which here must end. I came to say farewell, 
And the word must be said. 



22 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou canst not mean it ! 
Have I disclaim'd all maiden bashfulness, 
To tell the cherish'd secret of my soul 
To my soul's master, and in rich return 
Obtain'd the dear assurance of his love, 
To hear him speak that miserable word 
I cannot — will not echo ? 

ION. 

Heaven has call'd me, 
And I have pledged my honor. When thy heart 
Bestow'd its preference on a friendless boy, 
Thou didst not image him a recreant ; nor 
Must he prove so, by thy election crown'd. 
Thou hast endowed me with a right to claim 
Thy help through this our journey, be its course 
Lengthen'd to age, or in an hour to end ; 
And now I ask it! — bid my courage hold, 
And with thy free approval send me forth 
In soul apparell'd for my office ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Go! 
I would not have thee other than thou art, 
Living or dying — and if thou shouldst fall — 

ION. 

Be sure I shall return. 

CLEMANTHE. 

If thou shouldst fall, 
I shall be happier as the affianced bride 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 23 

Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes — 
Thine — ever thine — [she faints in his arms. 

ion. [calls.] 
Abra ! — So best to part — [Enter Abra. 
Let her have air ; be near her through the day ; 
I know thy tenderness — should ill news come 
Of any friend, she will require it all. 

[Abra bears Clemanthe out. 
Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim 
With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! 

[Exit. 



END OF ACT 



24 ION; A TRAGEDY. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Terrace of the Palace. 

ADRASTUS, CRYTHES. 
ADRASTUS. 

The air breathes freshly after our long night 
Of glorious revelry. I '11 walk awhile. 

CRYTHES. 

It blows across the town ; dost thou not fear 
It bear infection with it 1 

ADRASTUS. 

Fear ! dost talk 
Of fear to me ? I deem'd even thy poor thoughts 
Had better scann'd their master. Prithee tell me 
In what act, word, or look, since I have borne 
Thy converse here, hast thou discern'd such baseness 
As makes thee bold to prate to me of fear ? 

CRYTHES. 

My liege, of human might all know thee fearless, 
But may not heroes shun the elements 
When sickness taints them ? 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 25 

ADRASTUS. 

Let them blast me now ! — 
I stir not ; tremble not ; these massive walls, 
\$bose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home 
Of a great race of kings, along whose line 
The eager mind lives aching, through the darkness 
Of ages else unstoried, till its shapes 
Of armed sovereigns spread to godlike port, 
And, frowning in the uncertain dawn of time, 
Strike awe, as powers who ruled an elder world, 
In mute obedience. I, sad heriter 
Of all their glories, feel our doom is nigh ; 
And I will meet it as befits their fame ; 
Nor will I vary my selected path 
The breadth of my sword's edge, nor check a wish, 
If such unkingly yielding might avert it. 

CRYTHES. 

Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts. 

ADRASTUS. 

No more — 
I would be private. [Exit Crythes. 

Grovelling parasite ! 
Why should I waste these fate-environ'd hours, 
And pledge my great defiance to despair 
With flatterers such as thou ; — as if my joys 
Required the pale reflections cast by slaves 
In mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd 
The aid of reptile sympathies to stream 
Through fate's black pageantry ? Let weakness seek 



26 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 

Companionship : I '11 henceforth feast alone. 

Enter a Soldier. 

SOLDIER. 

My liege, forgive me. 

ADRASTUS. 

Well ! Speak out at once 
Thy business, and retire. 

SOLDIER. 

I have no part 
In the presumptuous message that I bear. 

ADRASTUS. 

Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste 
On idle terrors. 

SOLDIER. 

Thus it is, my lord : — 
As we were burnishing our arms, a man 
Enter'd the court, and when we saw him first 
Was tending towards the palace ; in amaze, 
We hail'd the rash intruder ; still he walk'd 
Unheeding onward, till the western gate 
Barr'd further course ; then turning, he besought 
Our startled band to herald him to thee, 
That he might urge a message which the sages 
Had charged him to deliver. 

ADRASTUS. 

Ha ! the greybeards 
Who, mid the altars of the gods, conspire 
To cast the image of supernal power 



scenei.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 27 

From earth its shadow consecrates. What sage 
Is so resolved to play the orator 
That he would die for 't ? 

SOLDIER. 

He is but a youth, 
Yet urged his prayer with a sad constancy 
Which could not be denied. 

ADRASTUS. 

Most bravely plann'd ! 
Sedition worthy of the reverend host 
Of sophist traitors ; brave to scatter fancies 
Of discontent midst sturdy artisans, 
Whose honest sinews they direct unseen, 
And make their proxies in the work of peril ! — 
'Tis fit, when burning to insult their king, 
And warn'd the pleasure must be bought with life, 
Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom ! 
Thou know'st my last decree ; tell this rash youth 
The danger he incurs ; — then let him pass, 
And own the king more gentle than his masters. 

SOLDIER. 

We have already told him of the fate 

Which waits his daring ; courteously he thank'd us, 

But still with solemn accent urged his suit. 

ADRASTUS. 

Tell him once more, if he persists, he dies — 
Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold 
His purpose, order Crythes to conduct him, 
And see the headsman instantly prepare 



28 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii 

To do his office. [Exit Soldter, 

So resolved, so young — 
Twere pity he should fall ; yet he must fall, 
Or the great sceptre, which hath sway'd the fears 
Of ages, will become a common staff 
For youth to wield or age to rest upon, 
Despoil'd of all its virtues. He must fall, 
Else they who prompt the insult will grow bold, 
And with their pestilent vauntings through the city 
Raise the low fog of murky discontent, 
Which now creeps harmless through its marshy birth- 
place, 
To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ; 
And if he cross yon threshold, he shall die. 

Enter Crythes and Ion. 

CRYTHES. 

The king ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Stranger, I bid thee welcome ; 
We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword 

[To Crythes. 
Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready? 

CRYTHES. 

Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court ; 
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground, 
The steel gleams on the altar ; and the slave 
Disrobes himself for duty. 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 29 

ADRASTUS. [to IoN.] 

Dost thou see them ? 

ION. 

I do. 

ADRASTUS. 

By Heaven, he does not change ! 
If, even now, thou wilt depart and leave 
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 

ION. 

I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand 

Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 

In all that makes life precious to the brave ; 

Who perish not alone, but in their fall 

Break the far- spreading tendrils that they feed, 

And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 

For them, I am content to speak no more. 

ADRASTUS. 

Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon dial 
Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, 
I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, 
Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
Now leave us. 

CRYTHES. 

What, alone ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Yes, slave! alone. 
He is no assassin ! [Exit Crythes. 

Tell me who thou art. 
What generous source owns that heroic blood, 



30 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act n 

Which holds its course thus bravely ? What great wars 
Have nursed the courage that can look on death, 
Certain and speedy death, with placid eye ? 

ION. 

I am a simple youth, who never bore 

The weight of armour, — one who may not boast 

Of noble birth or valour of his own. 

Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak 

In thy great presence, and have made my heart 

Upon the verge of bloody death as calm, 

As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 

Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils 

Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial dreams 

Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows 

Of soft oblivion, to belong to me ! — 

These are the strengths of Heaven ; to thee they speak, 

Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry, 

Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come ! 

ADRASTUS. 

I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy warnings. 

The envious gods in me have doom'd a race, 

Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts, 

Whence their own dawn'd upon the infant world ; 

And I shall sit on my ancestral throne 

To meet their vengeance ; but till then I rule 

As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 

ION. 

I will not further urge thy safety to thee ; 
It may be, as thou sayst, too late j nor seek 



scene i] ION; A TRAGEDY. 31 

To make thee tremble at the gathering curse 

Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall ; 

But thou art gifted with a nobler sense — 

I know thou art, my sovereign ! — sense of pain 

Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls, 

And in whose father's souls, thou and thy fathers 

Have kept their cherish'd state ; whose heartstrings, still 

The living fibres of thy rooted power, 

Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn 

From heavenly justice on them. 

ADRASTUS. 

How ! my crimes ? 

ION. 

Yes ; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is, 

Sorrow shall answer it ; and thou hast not 

A poor man's privilege to bear alone, 

Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen, 

The penalties of evil, for in thine 

A nation's fate lies circled. — King Adrastus ! 

Steel'd as thy heart is with the usages 

Of pomp and power, a few short summers since 

Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. 

Oh, i*" maternal love embraced thee then, 

Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet 

Glare o'er their perishing children : hast thou shared 

The glow of a first friendship, which is born 

Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth 

Smitten amidst its playthings ; — let the spirit 

Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity ! 



32 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii, 

ADRASTUS. 

In every word thou dost but steal my soul. 
My youth was blasted ; — parents, brother, kin — 
All that should people infancy with joy — 
Conspired to poison mine ; despoiled my life 
Of innocence and hope — all but the sword 
And sceptre — dost thou wonder at me now ? 

ION. 

I knew that we should pity — 

ADRASTUS. 

Pity ! dare 
To speak that word again, and torture waits thee ! 
I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on — 
Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear. 

ION. 

If thou hast ever loved — 

ADRASTUS. 

Beware ! beware ! 

ION. 

Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble, 
And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time 
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 
Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, 
As if some unseen visitant from heaven 
Touch'd the calm lake and wreath'd its images 
In sparkling waves ; — recall the dallying hope 
That on the margin of assurance trembled, 
As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd 
Its happy being ; — taste in thought again 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 33 

Of the stolen sweetness of those evening- walks, 
When pansied turf was air to winged feet, 
And circling forests, by ethereal touch 
Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, 
As if about to melt in golden light 
Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart, 
Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, 
Grew bountiful to all ! 

ADRASTUS. 

That tone ! that tone ! 
Whence came it? from thy lips ? It cannot be — 
The long-hush'd music of the only voice 
That ever spake unb ought affection to me, 
And waked my soul to blessing ! — O sweet hours 
Of golden joy, ye come ! your glories break 
Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds ! 
Roll on ! roll on ! — Stranger, thou dost enforce me 
To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine 
To human ear : — wilt listen ? 

ION. 

As a child. 

ADRASTUS. 

Again ! — that voice again ! — thou hast seen me moved 
As never mortal saw me, by a tone 
W hich some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound, 
Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice 
Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth 
This city, which, expectant of its Prince, 
Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstasies ; 

c 



34 ION; A TRAGEDY, [act ii. 

Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 

Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun, 

And welcome thunder'd from a thousand throats, 

My doom was seaPd. From the hearth's vacant space, 

In the dark chamber where my mother lay, 

Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness, 

Came forth, in heart-appalling tone, these words 

Of me the nurseling — " Woe unto the babe! 

" Against the life which now begins shall life, 

" Lighted from thence, be arm'd, and, both soon quench'd, 

" End this great line in sorrow ! " — Ere I grew 

Of years to know myself a thing accursed, 

A second son was born, to steal the love 

Which fate had else scarce rifled : he became 

My parents' hope, the darling of the crew 

Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery 

To trace in every foible of my youth — 

A prince's youth! — the workings of the curse; 

My very mother — Jove ! I cannot bear 

To speak it now — look'd freezingiy upon me ! 

§ ,ON - 

But thy brother-*|j 

ADRASTUS. 

Died. Thou hast heard the lie, 
The common lie that every peasant tells 
Of me his master,— that I slew the boy. 
'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a crag 
Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
He lay a mangled corpse : the very slaves, 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 35 

Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, 
Now coin'd their own injustice into proofs 
To brand me as his murderer. 

ION. 

Did they dare 
Accuse thee ? 

ADRASTUS, 

Not in open speech : — they felt 
I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
And crush'd the lie half spoken with the life 
Of the base speaker ; — but the tale look'd out 
From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank 
When mine have met them ; murmur'd through the crowd 
That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game, 
Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul 
When I beheld it in my father's shudder ! 

ION. 

Didst not declare thy innocence ? 

ADRASTUS. 

To whom ? 
To parents who could doubt me ? To the ring 
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons, 
Who should have studied to prevent my wish 
Before it grew to language ; hail'd my choice 
To service as a prize to wrestle for; 
And whose reluctant courtesy I bore, 
Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress'd 
The blood has started ? To the common herd, 
The vassals of our ancient house, the mass 



36 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil 

A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it, 

Or, deck'd for slaughter at their master's call, 

To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd 

In heaps to swell his glory or his shame ? 

Answer to them : No ! though my heart had burst, 

As it was nigh to bursting ! — To the mountains 

I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow 

Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool 

My spirit's fever — struggled with the oak 

In search of weariness, and learn 'd to rive 

Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung 

Might mate in cordage with its infant stems ; 

Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest 

Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air 

Headlong committed, clove the water's depth 

Which plummet never sounded ; — but in vain. 

ION. 

Yet succour came to thee ? 

ADRASTUS. 

A blessed one ! 
Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, 
And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps 
Were in a wood-encircled valley stay'd 
By the bright vision of a maid, whose face 
Most lovely more than loveliness reveal'd, 
In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd 
Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine. 
With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth 



scene l.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 37 

The body of her aged sire, whose death 
Left her alone. I aided her sad work, 
And soon too lonely ones by holy rites 
Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, 
In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us 
In our delightful nest. My father's spies- 
Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes 
Or the swift falchion — track'd our sylvan home 
Just as my bosom knew its second joy, 
And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son. 

ION. 

Urged by thy trembling parents to avert 
That dreadful prophecy 1 

ADRASTUS. 

Fools ! did they deem 
Its worst accomplishment could match the ill 
Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharm'd 
A thousand ecstasies of passion'd years, 
Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain 
Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold 
That son with knife uplifted at my heart, 
A moment ere my life-blood follow'd it, 
I would embrace him with my dying eyes, 
And pardon destiny! While jocund smiles 
Wreathed on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits 
Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul, 
The ruffians broke upon us ; seized the child ; 
Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock 
'Neath which the deep wave eddies : I stood still 



38 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii- 

As stricken into stone : I heard him cry, 
Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, 
Severer ill unfearing — then the splash 
Of waters that shall cover him for ever ; 
And could not stir to save him ! 

ION. 

And the mother — 

ADRASTUS. 

She spake no word, but clasp'd me in her arms, 

And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze 

Of love she fixed on me — none other loved, 

And so pass'd hence. By Jupiter, her look ! 

Her dying patience glimmers in thy face ! 

She lives again ! She looks upon me now ! 

There 's magic in 't. Bear with me — I am childish. 

Enter Crythes and Guards. 

ADRASTUS. 

Why art thou here ? 

CRYTHES. 

The dial points the hour. 

ADRASTUS. 

Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd ? 
Hast thou no heart — no sense ? 

CRYTHES. 

Scarce half an hour 
Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 

ADRASTUS. 

Scarce half an hour ! — years— years have roll'd since then. 



scenei.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 39 

Begone ! remove that pageantry of death — 
It blasts my sight — and hearken ! Touch a hair 
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now 
With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band 
Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. 
Hence without word. [Exit Crythes. 

What wouldst thou have me do ? 

ION. 

Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language ; 
Convene thy Sages ; — frankly, nobly meet them ; 
Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it. 

ADKASTUS. 

Well ! I will seek their presence in an hour ; 
Go summon them, young hero : hold ! no word 
Of the strange passion thou hast witness'd here. 

ION. 

Distrust me not. — Benignant Powers, I thank ye ! [ Exit. 

ADRASTUS. 

Yet stay — he 's gone — his spell is on me yet ; 
What have I promised him ? To meet the men 
Who from my living head would strip the crown 
And sit in judgment on me ?— I must do it — 
Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe 
The course of liberal speech, and, if it rise 
So as too loudly to offend my ear, 
Strike the rash brawler dead ! — What idle dream 
Of long-past days had melted me? It fades — 
It vanishes — I am again a king ! 



40 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11 

SCENE II. 

The Interior of the Temple, 

[Same as Act I. Scene I.] 

[Clemanthe seated — Abra attending her.] 

ABRA. 

Look, dearest lady ! — the thin smoke aspires 
In the calm air, as when in happier times 
It show'd the gods propitious ; wilt thou seek 
Thy chamber, lest thy father and his friends, 
Returning, find us hinderers of their council ? 
She answers not — she hearkens not — with joy 
Could I believe her, for the first time, sullen ! 
Still she is ra'pt. 

[Enter Agenor.] 

O speak to my sweet mistress ; 
Haply thy voice may rouse her. 

AGENOR. 

Dear Clemanthe, 
Hope dawns in every omen ; we shall hail 
Our tranquil hours again. 

Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and others. 
medon. 
Clemanthe here ! 
How sad ! how pale ! 



scene 11.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 4] 

ABRA. 

Her eye is kindling — hush ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Hark ! hear ye not a distant footstep ? 

MEDON. 

No. 
Look round, my fairest child ; thy friends are near thee. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Yes ! — now 'tis lost — 'tis on that endless stair — 
Nearer and more distinct — 'tis his — 'tis his — 
He lives ! he comes ! 

[Clemanthe rises and rushes to the back of the stage, 
at which Ion appears, and returns with her.'] 
Here is your messenger, 
Whom Heaven has rescued from the tyrant's rage 
Ye sent him forth to brave. Rejoice, old men, 
That ye are guiltless of his blood ! — why pause ye ? 
Why shout ye not his welcome 1 

MEDON. 

Dearest girl, 
This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber; 
I '11 come to thee ere long. 

[Exeunt Clemanthe and Abra. 
She is o'erwrought 
By fear and joy for one whose infant hopes 
Were mingled with her own, even as a brother's. 

TIMOCLES. 

Ion! 
How shall we do thee honor ? 



42 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii 

ION. 

None is due 
Save to the gods whose gracious influence sways 
The king ye deem'd relentless ; — he consents 
To meet ye presently in council : — speed ; 
This may be nature's latest rally in him, 
In fitful strength, ere it be quench 'd for ever ! 

MEDON. 

Haste to your seats ; I will but speak a word 

With our brave friend, and follow : though convened 

In speed, let our assembly lack no forms 

Of due observance, which to furious power 

Plead with the silent emphasis of years. 

[Exeunt all but Me don and Ion, 
Ion, draw near me ; this eventful day 
Hath shown thy nature's graces circled round 
With firmness which accomplishes the hero ; — 
And it would bring to me but one proud thought — 
That virtues which required not culture's aid 
Shed their first fragrance 'neath my roof, and there 
Found shelter ; — but it also hath reveal'd 
What I may not hide from thee, that my child, 
My blithe and innocent girl — more fair in soul, 
More delicate in fancy than in mould — 
Loves thee with other than a sister's love. 
I should have cared for this : I vainly deem'd 
A fellowship in childhood's thousand joys 
And household memories had nurtured friendship 
Which might hold blameless empire in the soul ; 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 43 

But in that guise the traitor hath stolen in, 
And the fair citadel is thine. 

ION. 

Tis true. 
I did not think the nurseling of thy house 
Could thus disturb its holiest inmate's duty 
With tale of selfish passion ; — but we met 
As playmates who might never meet again, 
And then the hidden truth flash'd forth, and show'd 
To each the image in the other's soul 
In one bright instant. 

MEDON. 

Be that instant blest 
Which made thee truly ours. My son ! my son ! 
'Tis we should feel uplifted, for the seal 
Of greatness is upon thee ; yet I know 
That when the gods, won by thy virtues, draw 
The veil which now conceals their lofty birthplace, 
Thou wilt not spurn the maid who prized them lowly, 

ION. 

Spurn her ! My father ! 

Enter Ctesiphon. 

medon. 
Ctesiphon !— and breathless- 
Art come to chide me to the council ? 

CTESIPHON. 

No; 
To bring unwonted joy ; thy son approaches, 



44 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

MEDON. 

Thank Heaven ! Hast spoken with him ? Is he well ? 

CTESIPHON. 

I strove in vain to reach him, for the crowd, 

Roused from the untended couch and dismal hearth 

By the strange visiting of hope, press'd round him ! 

But, by his head erect and fiery glance, 

I know that he is well, and that he bears 

A message which shall shake the tyrant. [Shouts.] See ! 

The throng is tending this way — now it parts, 

And yields him to thy arms. 

Enter Phocion. 
medon. 

Welcome, my Phocion — 
Long waited for in Argos ; how detain'd 
Now matters not, since thou art here in joy. 
Hast brought the answer of the god ? 

PHOCION. 

I have : 
Now let Adrastus tremble ! 

MEDON. 

May we hear it ? 

PHOCION. 

I am sworn first to utter it to him. 

CTESIPHON. 

But it is fatal to him ! — Say but that ! 

PHOCION. 

Ha, Ctesiphon ! — I mark'd thee not before ; 



sceneii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 45 

How fares thy father ? 

ion. [to Phocion.] 
Do not speak of him. 
ctesiphon. [overhearing Ion.] 
Not speak of him ! Dost think there is a moment 
When common things eclipse the burning thought 
Of him and vengeance ? 

PHOCION. 

Has the tyrant's sword — 

CTESIPHON. 

No, Phocion ; that were merciful and brave, 
Compared to his base deed ; yet will I tell it 
To make the flashing of thine eye more deadly, 
And edge thy words that they may rive his heartstrings. 
The last time that Adrastus dared to face 
The Sages of the state, although my father, 
Yielding to nature's mild decay, had left 
All worldly toil and hope, he gathered strength, 
In his old seat, to speak one word of warning. 
Thou know'st how bland with years his wisdom grew, 
And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheath'd 
The sharpness of rebuke ; yet, ere his speech 
Was closed, the tyrant started from his throne, 
And with his base hand smote him ; — 'twas his death- 
stroke ! 
The old man totter'd home, and only once 
Raised his head after. 

PHOCION. 

Thou wert absent ? Yes ! 



46 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 

The royal miscreant lives ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Had I beheld 
That sacrilege, the tyrant had lain dead, 
Or I had been torn piecemeal by his minions. 
But I was far away : when I return 'd, 
I found my father on the nearest bench 
Within our door, his thinly silver'd head 
Supported by wan hands, which hid his face 
And would not be withdrawn ; — no groan, no sigh 
Was audible, and we might only learn 
By short convulsive tremblings of his frame 
That life still flicker'd in it — yet at last, 
By some unearthly inspiration roused, 
He dropp'd his wither'd hands, and sat erect 
As in his manhood's glory — the free blood 
Flush 'd crimson through his cheeks, his furrow 'd brow 
Expanded clear, and his eyes opening full 
Gleam'd with a youthful fire ; — I fell in awe 
Upon my knees before him — still he spake not, 
But slowly raised his arm untrembling ; clench 'd 
His hand as if it grasp'd an airy knife, 
And struck in air : my hand was joined with his 
In nervous grasp — my lifted eye met his 
In steadfast gaze — my pressure answer'd his — 
We knew at once each other's thought ; a smile 
Of the old sweetness play'd upon his lips, 
And life forsook him. Weaponless I flew 
To seek the tyrant, and was driven with scoffs 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 47 

From the proud gates which shelter him. He lives — 
And I am here to babble of revenge ! 

PHOCION. 

It comes, my friend — haste with me to the king ! 

ION. 

Even while we speak, Adrastus meets his council ; 
There let us seek him : should ye find him touch'd 
With penitence, as happily ye may, 

give allowance to his soften'd nature ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Show grace to him ! — Dost dare ? — I had forgot, 
Thou dost not know how a son loves a father ! 

ION. 

1 know enough to feel for thee ; I know 

Thou hast endured the vilest wrong that tyranny 

In its worst frenzy can inflict ; — yet think, 

O think ! before the irrevocable deed 

Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess 

Is theirs who raise the idol : — do we groan 

Beneath the personal force of this rash man, 

Who forty summers since hung at the breast 

A playful w r eakling ; whom the heat unnerves, 

The north wind pierces ; and the hand of death 

May, in a moment, change to clay as vile 

As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs ? 

No ! 'tis our weakness gasping, or the shows 

Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, 

And makes it look so glorious : — If we shrink 

Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span 



48 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii 

Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish 

For long duration in a line of kings : 

If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade 

All unsubstantial as the regal hues 

Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty 

Must robe a living image with their pomp, 

And wreathe a diadem around its brow, 

In which our sunny fantasies may live 

Empearl'd, and gleam, in fatal splendour, far 

On after ages. We must look within 

For that which makes us slaves ; — on sympathies 

Which find no kindred objects in the plain 

Of common life — affections that aspire 

In air too thin — and fancy's dewy film 

Floating for rest ; for even such delicate threads, 

Gather'd by fate's engrossing hand, supply 

The eternal spindle whence she weaves the bond 

Of cable strength in which our nature struggles! 

CTESIPHON. 

Go talk to others, if thou wilt ; — to me 
All argument, save that of steel, is idle. 

medon. 
No more ; — let 's to the council — there, my son, 
Tell thy great message nobly ; — and for thee, 
Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the gods are j ust ! 

[Exeunt. 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 49 



SCENE III. 

The great Square of the City. Adrastus seated on a 
throne; Agenor, Timocles, Cleon, and others, 
seated as Councillors — Soldiers line the stage at a 
distance. 

ADRASTUS. 

Upon your summons, Sages, I am here ; 

Your king attends to know your pleasure ; speak it ! 

AGENOR. 

And canst thou ask ? If the heart dead within thee 

"Receives no impress of this awful time, 

Art thou of sense forsaken ? Are thine ears 

So charm'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy 

That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek 

Pass them unheard to Heaven 1 Or are thine eyes 

So conversant with prodigies of grief, 

They cease to dazzle at them ? Art thou arm'd 

'Gainst wonder, while, in all things, Nature turns 

To dreadful contraries ; — while Youth's full cheek 

Is shrivell'd into furrows of sad years, 

And 'neath its glossy curls untinged by care 

Looks out a keen anatomy ; — while Age 

Is stung by feverish torture for an hour 

Into youth's strength ; while fragile Womanhood 

Starts into frightful courage, all unlike 

The gentle strength its gentle weakness feeds 

To make affliction beautiful, and stalks 

D 



50 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Abroad, a tearless, an unshuddering thing; — 

While Childhood, in its orphan'd freedom blithe, 

Finds, in the shapes of wretchedness which seem 

Grotesque to its unsadden'd vision, cause 

For dreadful mirth that shortly shall be hush'd 

In never-broken silence ; and while Love, 

Immortal through all change, makes ghastly Death 

Its idol, and with furious passion digs 

Amid sepulchral images for gauds 

To cheat its fancy with ? — Do sights like these 

Glare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, 

And canst thou find the voice to ask " our pleasure ? " 

ADRASTUS. 

Cease, babbler ; — wherefore would ye stun my ears 

With vain recital of the griefs I know, 

And cannot heal ? — will treason turn aside 

The shafts of fate, or medicine Nature's ills ? 

I have no skill in pharmacy, nor power 

To sway the elements. 

AGENOR. 

Thou hast the power 
To cast thyself upon the earth with us 
In penitential shame ; or, if this power 
Hath left a heart made weak by luxury 
And hard by pride, thou hast at least the power 
To cease the mockery of thy frantic revels. 

ADRASTUS. 

I have yet power to punish insult — look 
I use it not, Agenor ! — Fate may dash 



scene m.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 51 

My sceptre from me, but shall not command 

My will to hold it with a feebler grasp ; 

Nay, if few hours of empire yet are mine, 

They shall be colour'd with a sterner pride, 

And peopled with more lustrous joys than flush M 

In the serene procession of its greatness, 

Which look'd perpetual, as the flowing course 

Of human things. Have ye beheld a pine 

That clasp'd the mountain-summit with a root 

As firm as its rough marble, and, apart 

From the huge shade of undistinguish'd trees, 

Lifted its head as in delight to share 

The evening glories of the sky, and taste 

The wanton dalliance of the heavenly breeze 

That no ignoble vapour from the vale 

Could mingle with — smit by the flaming marl, 

And lighted for destruction ? How it stood 

One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed with fire 

Which show'd the inward graces of its shape, 

Uncumber'd now, and midst its topmost boughs, 

That young Ambition's airy fancies made 

Their giddy nest, leap'd sportive ;— never clad 

By liberal summer in a pomp so rich 

As waited on its downfall, while it took 

The storm-cloud roll'd behind it for a curtain 

To gird its splendours round, and made the blast 

Its minister to whirl its flashing shreds 

Aloft towards heaven, or to the startled depths 

Of forests that afar might share its doom ! 



52 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 

So shall the royalty of Argos pass 

In festal blaze to darkness ! Have ye spoken ? 

AGENOR. 

I speak no more to thee ! — Great Jove, look down ! 
[Shouting without.] 

ADRASTUS. 

What factious brawl is this ? — disperse it, soldiers. 
[Shouting renewed — As some of the soldiers are about to 

march, Phocion rushes in, followed by Ctesiphon, 

Ion, and Medon. 
Whence is this insolent intrusion ? 

PHOCION. 

King! 
I bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. 

ADRASTUS. 

Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty ? 
Here we had school'd thee better. 

PHOCION. 

Kneel to thee ! 

MEDON. 

Patience, my son ! Do homage to the king. 

PHOCION. 

Never ! — thou talk'st of schooling — know, Adrastus, 

That I have studied in a nobler school 

Than the dull haunt of venal sophistry 

Or the lewd guard-room ; — o'er which ancient heaven 

Extends its arch for all, and mocks the span 

Of palaces and dungeons ; where the heart 

In its free beatings, 'neath the coarsest vest, 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 53 

Claims kindred with diviner things than power 
Of kings can raise or stifle — in the school 
Of mighty Nature — where I learn 'd to blush 
At sight like this, of thousands basely hush'd 
Before a man no mightier than themselves, 
Save in the absence of that love that softens. 

ADRASTUS. 

Peace ! speak thy message. 

PHOCION. 

Shall I tell it here ? 
Or shall I seek thy couch at dead of night, 
And breathe it in low whispers ? — As thou wilt. 

ADRASTUS. 

Here — and this instant ! 

PHOCION. 

Hearken then, Adrastus, 
And hearken, Argives — thus Apollo speaks : — 
[Reads a scroll.] 
" Argos ne'er shall find release 
" Till her monarch's race shall cease." 

ADRASTUS. 

Tis not God's will, but man's sedition speaks : — 
Guards ! tear that lying parchment from his hands, 
And bear him to the palace. 

MEDON. 

Touch him not, — 
He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips 
Were never stain'd with falsehood. 



54 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

PHOCION. 

Come on, all ! 

AGENOR. 

Surround him, friends ! Die with him ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Soldiers, charge 
Upon these rebels ; hew them down. On, on ! 
The soldiers advance and surround the people ; they 
seize Phocion. Ion rushes from the back of the 
stage, and throws himself between Adrastus and 
Phocion. 

Phocion to Adrastus. 
Yet I defy thee. 

ION. 

[To Phocion.] Friend ! for sake of all, 

Enrage him not — wait while I speak a word — 

[To Adrastus.] My sovereign, I implore thee, do not 

stain 
This sacred place with blood ; in Heaven's great name 
I do conjure thee — and in hers, whose spirit 
Is mourning for thee now ! 

adrastus. 

Release the stripling — 
Let him go spread his treason where he will : 
He is not worth my anger. To the palace ! 

ION. 

Nay, yet an instant ! — let my speech have power 
From Heaven to move thee further : thou hast heard 
The sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it ; 



sceneiii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 55 

If thou wilt cast aside this cumbrous pomp, 
And in seclusion purify thy soul 
Long fever' d and sophisticate, the gods 
May give thee space for penitential thoughts : 
If not — as surely as thou standest here, 
Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood. — 
The vision presses on me now. 

ADRASTUS. 

Art mad ? 
Resign thy state ? Sue to the gods for life, 
The common life which every slave endures, 
And meanly clings to I No ; within yon walls 
I shall resume the banquet, never more 
Broken by man's intrusion. Councillors, 
Farewell ! — go mutter treason till ye perish ! 

[Exeunt Adrastus, Crythes, and Soldiers. 
Ion, who stands apart leaning on a pedestal. 
'Tis seal'd ! 

MEDON. 

Let us withdraw, and strive 
By sacrifice to pacify the gods ! 
Medon, Agenor, and Councillors retire : they leave 

Ctesiphon, Phocion, and Ion. Ion still stands 

apart, as wrapt in meditation. 

CTESIPHON. 

Tis well ; the measure of his guilt is fill'd. 
Where shall we meet at sunset ? 

PHOCION. 

In the grove, 



56 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 

Which with its matted shade imbrowns the vale, 
Between those buttresses of rock that guard 
The sacred mountain on its western side, 
Stands a rude altar — overgrown with moss, 
And stain'd with drippings of a million showers, 
So old, that no tradition names the power 
That hallow'd it, — which we will consecrate 
Anew to freedom and to justice. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thither 
Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak 
To yon rapt youth ? [pointing to Ion. 

phocion. 
His nature is too gentle. 
At sunset we will meet. — With arms 1 

CTESIPHON. 

A knife — 
One sacrificial knife will serve. 

PHOCION. 

At sunset ! 
[Exeunt Ctesiphon and Phocion severally. 
Ion comes forward, 

ION. 

O wretched man, thy words have seal'd thy doom ! 

Why should I shiver at it, when no way, 

Save this, remains to break the ponderous oloud 

That hangs above my wretched country ? — death — 

A single death, the common lot of all, 

Which it will not be mine to look upon, — 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 57 

And yet its ghastly shape dilates before me ; 

I cannot shut it out ; my thoughts grow rigid, 

And as that grim and prostrate figure haunts them, 

My sinews stiffen like it. Courage, Ion ! 

No spectral form is here ; all outward things 

Wear their own old familiar looks ; no dye 

Pollutes them. Yet the air has scent of blood, 

And now it eddies with a hurtling sound, 

As if some weapon swiftly clove it. No — 

The falchion's course is silent as the grave 

That yawns before its victim. Gracious powers ! 

If the great duty of my life be near, 

Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike ! [Exit. 



END OF ACT II. 



58 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Terrace of the Temple. 

CLEMANTHE, ION. 
CLEMANTHE. 

Nay, I must chide this sorrow from thy brow, 
Or 'twill rebuke my happiness ; — I know 
Too well the miseries that hem us round ; 
And yet the inward sunshine of my soul, 
Unclouded by their melancholy shadows, 
Bathes in its deep tranquillity one image — 
One only image, which no outward storm 
Can ever ruffle. Let me wean thee, then, 
From this vain pondering o'er the general woe, 
Which makes my joy look ugly. 

ION. 

No, my fair one, 
The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeem'd 
By generous sense of others' woe : too sure 
It rises from dark presages within, 
x\nd will not from me. 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 59 

CLEMANTHE. 

Then it is most groundless ! 
Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing 
By constancy, the fame of which shall live 
While a heart beats in Argos ? — hast thou not 
Upon one agitated bosom pour'd 
The sweetest peace ? and can thy generous nature, 
While it thus sheds felicity around it, 
Remain itself unbless'd ? 

ION. 

I strove awhile 
To think the assured possession of thy love 
With too divine a burthen weigh'd my heart 
And press'd my spirits down ; — but 'tis not so ; 
Nor will I with false tenderness beguile thee, 
By feigning that my sadness has a cause 
So exquisite. Clemanthe ! thou wilt find me 
A sad companion ; — I who knew not life, 
Save as the sportive breath of happiness, 
Now feel my minutes teeming, as they rise, 
With grave experiences ; I dream no more 
Of azure realms where restless beauty sports 
In myriad shapes fantastic ; dismal vaults 
In black succession open till the gloom 
Afar is broken by a streak of fire 
That shapes my name — the fearful wind that moans 
Before the storm articulates its sound ; 
And as I pass'd but now the solemn range 
Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptured mockery 



60 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iu. 

Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone 

Bent on ine instinct with a frightful life 

That drew me into fellowship with them, 

As conscious marble ; while their ponderous lips — 

Fit organs of eternity — unclosed, 

And, as I live to tell thee, murmur'd " Hail ! 

Hail! Ion the Devoted!" 

CLEM A NTH E. 

These are fancies, 
Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpose, 
Shapes, as it quivers to its natural circle 
In which its joys should lurk, as in the bud 
The cells of fragrance cluster. Bid them from thee, 
And strive to be thyself. 

ION. 

I will do so ! 
I '11 gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink 
Its quiet in ; — how beautiful thou art ! — 
My pulse throbs now as it was wont ; — a being, 
Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it, 
Cannot show darkly. 

CLEMANTHE. 

We shall soon be happy ; 
My father will rejoice to bless our love, 
And Argos waken ; — for her tyrant's course 
Must have a speedy end. 

ION. 

It must ! It must ! 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 61 

CLEMANTHE. 

Yes ; for no empty talk of public wrongs 
Assails him now ; keen hatred and revenge 
Are roused to crush him. 

ION. 

Not by such base agents 
May the august lustration be achieved : 
He who shall cleanse his country from the guilt 
For which Heaven smites her, should be pure of soul, 
Guileless as infancy, and undisturb'd 
By personal anger as thy father is, 
When, with unswerving hand and piteous eye, 
He stops the brief life of the innocent kid 
Bound with white fillets to the altar ; — so 
Enwreathed by fate the royal victim heaves, 
And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife 
Of the selected slayer ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Tis thyself 
Whom thy strange language pictures — Ion ! thou — 

ION. 

She has said it ! Her pure lips have spoken out 
What all things intimate ; — didst thou not mark 
Me for the office of avenger — me ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

No ; — save from the wild picture that thy fancy — 
Thy o'erwrought fancy drew ; I thought it look'd 
Too like thee, and I shudder'd. 



62 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

ION. 

So do I ! 
And yet I almost wish I shudder'd more, 
For the dire thought has grown familiar with me — 
Could I escape it ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Twill away in sleep. 

ION. 

No, no ! I dare not sleep — for well I know 

That then the knife will gleam, the blood will gush, 

The form will stiffen ! — I will walk awhile 

In the sweet evening light, and try to chase 

These fearful images away. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Let me 
Go with thee. O, how often hand in hand 
In such a lovely light have we roam'd westward 
Aimless and blessed, when we were no more 
Than playmates : — surely we are not grown stranger 
Since yesterday ! 

ION. 

No, dearest, not to-night : 
The plague yet rages fiercely in the vale, 
And I am placed in grave commission here 
To watch the gates ; — indeed thou must not pass ; 
I will be merrier when we meet again, — 
Trust me, my love, I will ; farewell ! [Exit Ion, 

CLEMANTHE. 

Farewell then ! 



scene i!.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 63 

How fearful disproportion shows in one 

Whose life hath been all harmony ! He bends 

Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour 

My father found him, which has ever been 

His chosen place of musing. Shall I follow ? 

Am I already grown a selfish mistress, 

To watch his solitude with jealous eye, 

And claim him all ? That let me never be — 

Yet danger from within besets him now, 

Known to me only — I will follow him ! [ExiL 



SCENE II. 

An opening in a deep wood — in front an old grey altar. 
Enter Ion. 

ion. 
O winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades 
Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent 
So often when by musing fancy sway'd, 
That craved alliance with no wider scene 
Than your fair thickets border'd, but was pleased 
To deem the toilsome years of manhood flown, 
And, on the pictured mellowness of age 
Idly reflective, image my return 
From careful wanderings, to find ye gleam 
With unchanged aspect on a heart unchanged, 
And melt the busy past to a sweet dream 



64 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act in. 

As then the future was ; — why should ye now 

Echo my steps with melancholy sound 

As ye were conscious of a guilty presence ? 

The lovely light of eve, that, as it waned, 

Touch 'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades 

In dismal blackness ; and yon twisted roots 

Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms 

My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible, 

As if about to start to serpent life, 

And hiss around me ; — whither shall I turn 1 — 

Where fly ? — I see the myrtle-cradled spot 

Where human love instructed by divine 

Found and embraced me first ; I '11 cast me down 

Upon that earth as on a mother's breast, 

In hope to feel myself again a child. 

[Ion goes into the wood. 

Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Argive youths. 

CTESIPHON. 

Sure this must be the place that Phocion spoke of; — 
The twilight deepens, yet he does not come. 
O, if, instead of idle dreams of freedom, 
He knew the sharpness of a grief like mine, 
He would not linger thus ! 

CASSANDER. 

The sun's broad disk 
Of misty red, a few brief minutes since, 
Sank 'neath the leaden wave ; but night steals on 
With rapid pace to veil us, and thy thoughts 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 65 

Are eager as the favouring darkness. 

Enter Phocion. 
ctesiphon. 

Welcome ! 
Thou know'st all here. 

PHOCION. 

Yes ; I rejoice, Cassander, 
To find thee my companion in a deed 
Worthy of all the dreamings of old days, 
When we, two rebel youths, grew safely brave 
In visionary perils. We '11 not shame 
Our young imaginations. Ctesiphon, 
We look to thee for guidance in our aim. 

CTESIPHON. 

I bring you glorious news. There is a soldier, 
Who, in his reckless boyhood, was my comrade, 
And though by taste of luxury subdued 
Even to brook the tyrant's service, burns 
With generous anger to avenge that grief 
1 bear above all others. He has made 
The retribution sure. From him I learnt 
That when Adrastus reach'd his palace court, 
He paused, to struggle with some mighty throe 
Of passion ; then call'd eagerly for wine, 
And bade his soldiers share his choicest stores, 
And snatch, like him, a day from Fortune. Soon, 
As one worn out by watching and excess, 
He stagger'd to his couch, where now he lies 



66 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

Oppress'd with heavy sleep, while his loose soldiers, 

Made by the fierce carousal vainly mad 

Or grossly dull, are scatter'd through the courts 

Unarm'd and cautionless. The eastern portal 

Is at this moment open ; by that gate 

We all may enter unperceived, and line 

The passages which gird the royal chamber, 

While one blest hand within completes the doom 

Which Heaven pronounces. Nothing now remains, 

But that as all would share this action's glory, 

We join in one great vow, and choose one arm 

Our common minister. Oh, if these sorrows 

Confer on me the office to return 

Upon the tyrant's shivering heart the blow 

Which crush 'd my father's spirit, I will leave 

To him who cares for toys the patriot's laurel 

And the applause of ages ! 

PHOCION. 

Let the gods 
By the old course of lot reveal the name 
Of the predestined champion. For myself, 
Here do I solemnly devote all powers 
Of soul and body to that glorious purpose 
We live but to fulfil. 

CTESIPHON. 

And I! 

CASSANDER. 

And I ! 



scene II.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 67 

ION. 

[ Who has advanced from the wood, rushes to the altar, 

and exclaims] 
And I! 

PHOCION. 

Most welcome! The serenest powers of justice, 
In prompting thy unspotted soul to join 
Our bloody councils, sanctify and bless them ! 

ION. 

The gods have prompted me ; for they have given 
One dreadful voice to all things which should be 
Else dumb or musical : and I rejoice 
To step from the grim round of waking dreams 
Into this fellowship which makes all clear. 
Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon ? 

CTESIPHON. 

Yes ; but we waste 
The precious minutes in vain talk : if lots 
Must guide us, have ye scrolls? 

PHOCION. 

Cassander has them : 
The flickering light of yonder glade will serve him 
To inscribe them with our names. Be quick, Cassander ! 

CTESIPHON. 

I wear a casque, beneath whose iron circlet 
My father's dark hairs whiten'd ; let it hold 
The names of his avengers ! 

[Ctesiphon takes off his helmet and gives it io Cassander, 
who retires vnth it.] 



68 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act in. 

PHOCION [to CTESIPHON.] 

He whose name 
Thou shalt draw first shall fill the post of glory. 
Were it not also well, the second name 
Should designate another charged to take 
The same great office, if the first should leave 
His work imperfect ? 

CTESIPHON. 

There can scarce be need ; 
Yet as thou wilt. May the first chance be mine ! 
I will leave little for a second arm. 

[Cassander returns with the helmet. 

CTESIPHON. 

Now, gods, decide ! 

[Ctesiphon draws a lot from the helmet. 

PHOCION. 

The name ? Why dost thou pause ? 

CTESIPHON. 

Tis Ion ! 

ION. 

Well I knew it would be mine ! 

[Ctesiphon draws another lot. 

CTESIPHON. 

Phocion ! it will be thine to strike him dead 
If he should prove faint-hearted. 

PHOCION. 

With my life 
I '11 answer for his constancy. 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 69 

ctesiphon [to Ion.] 
Thy hand ! 
Tis cold as death. 

ION. 

Yes ; but it is as firm. 
What ceremony next ? 
[Ctesiphon leads Ion to the altar, and gives him a knife,'] 

CTESIPHON. 

Receive this steel, 
For ages dedicate in my sad home 
To sacrificial uses ; grasp it nobly, 
And consecrate it to untrembling service 
Against the king of Argos and his race. 

ION. 

His race ! Is he not left alone on earth ? 
He hath no brother, and no child. 

CTESIPHON. 

Such words 
The god hath used who never speaks in vain. 

PHOCION. 

There were old rumours of an infant born 
And strangely vanishing ; — a tale of guilt 
Half-hush'd, perchance distorted in the hushing, 
And by the wise scarce heeded, for they deem'd it 
One of a thousand guilty histories, 
Which, if the walls of palaces could speak, 
Would show that, nursed by prideful luxury, 
To pamper which the virtuous peasant toils, 
Crimes grow unpunish'd which the pirates' nest, 



70 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which justice 
Keeps for unlicensed guilt, would startle at ! 
We must root out the stock, that no stray scion 
Renew the tree, whose branches, stifling virtue, 
Shed poison-dews on joy. 

Ion 
[Approaches the altar, and, lifting up the knife, speaks] 
Ye eldest gods, 
Who in no statues of exactest form 
Are palpable ; who shun the azure heights 
Of beautiful Olympus, and the sound 
Of ever-young Apollo's minstrelsy ; 
Yet, mindful of the empire which ye held 
Over dim Chaos, keep revengeful wrath 
On falling nations, and on kingly lines 
About to sink for ever ; ye, who shed 
Into the passions of earth's giant brood 
And their fierce usages the sense of justice ; 
Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny 
AVith blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe 
Through the proud halls of time-embolden'd guilt 
Portents of ruin, hear me! — In your presence, 
For now I feel ye nigh, I dedicate 
This arm to the destruction of the king 
And of his race ! O keep me pitiless ; 
Expel all human weakness from my frame, 
That this keen weapon shake not when his heart 
Should feel its point ; and if he has a child 
Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 71 

My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! — 
Was not that thunder ? 

CTESIPHON. 

No ; I heard no sound. 
Now mark me, Ion ! — thou shalt straight be led 
To the king's chamber ; we shall be at hand ; 
Nothing can give thee pause. Hold ! one should watch 
The city's eastern portal, lest the troops, 
Returning from the work of plunder home, 
Surround us unprepared. Be that thy duty. 

[To Phocion. 

phocion. 
I am to second Ion if he fail. 

CTESIPHON. 

He cannot fail ; — I shall be nigh. What, Ion ! 

ION. 

Who spake to me ? Where am I ? Friends, your pardon : 
I am prepared ; yet grant me for a moment, 
One little moment, to be left alone. 

CTESIPHON. 

Be brief then, or the season of revenge 

Will pass. At yonder thicket we '11 expect thee. 

[Exeunt all but Ion. 
ion. 
Methinks I breathe more freely, now my lot 
Is palpable, and mortals gird me round, 
Though my soul owns no sympathy with theirs. 
Some one approaches — I must hide this knife — 
Hide ! I have ne'er till now had aught to hide 



72 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

From any human eye. [He conceals the knife in his vest. 

[Enter Clemanthe.] 
Clemanthe here ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Forgive me that I break upon thee thus : 
I meant to watch thy steps unseen ; but night 
Is thickening ; thou art haunted by sad fancies, 
And 'tis more terrible to think upon thee 
Wandering with such companions in thy bosom, 
Than in the peril thou art wont to seek 
Beside the bed of death. 

ION. 

Death, sayst thou ? Death ? 
Is it not righteous when the gods decree it ? 
And brief its sharpest agony ? Yet, fairest, 
It is no theme for thee. Go in at once, 
And think of it no more. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Not without thee. 
Indeed thou art not well ; thy hands are marble ; 
Thine eyes are fix'd ; let me support thee, love : — 
Ha ! what is that gleaming within thy vest ? 
A knife ! Tell me its purpose, Ion ! 

ION. 

No; 
My oath forbids. 

CLEMANTHE. 

An oath ! O gentle Ion, 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 73 

What can have link'd thee to a cause which needs 
A stronger cement than a good man's word ? 
There 's danger in it. Wilt thou keep it from me ? 

ION. 

Alas, I must. Thou wilt know all full soon — 

[Voices call Ion !] 
Hark ! I am call'd. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Nay, do not leave me thus. 

ION. 

Tis very sad [voices again]— I dare not stay — farewell ! 

[Exit. 

CLEMANTHE. 

It must be to Adrastus that he hastes ! 

If by his hand the fated tyrant die, 

Austere remembrance of the deed will hang 

Upon his delicate spirit like a cloud, 

And tinge its world of happy images 

With hues of horror. Shall I to the palace, 

And, as the price of my disclosure, claim 

His safety ? No ! — 'Tis never woman's part 

Out of her fond misgivings to perplex 

The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves ; 

'Tis hers to weave all that she has of fair 

And bright in the dark meshes of their web 

Inseparate from their windings. My poor heart 

Hath found its refuge in a hero's love, 

Whatever destiny his generous soul 

Shape for him ; — 'tis its duty to be still, 

And trust him till it bound or break with his. [Exit. 



74 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 



SCENE III. 

A Chamber in the Temple. 

Enter Mevok , followed by Abra. 

medon. 
My daughter not within the temple, sayst thou ? 
Abroad at such an hour ? Sure not alone 
She wander'd : tell me truly, did not Phocion 
Or Ion bear her company ? 'twas Ion — 
Confess ; — was it not he ? I shall not chide, 
Indeed I shall not. 

ABRA. 

She went forth alone ; 
But it is true that Ion just before 
Had taken the same path. 

MEDON. 

It was to meet him. 
I would they were return'd ; the night is grown 
Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes — 
Look if it be my daughter. 

Abra [looking out.] 

No ; young Irus, 
The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 75 

Agenor, with so gracious a respect, 
This morning told us. 

MEDOJS. 

Let him come ; he bears 
Some message from his master. 

E)iter Irus. 
Medon [to Irus.] 

Thou art pale : 
Has any evil happen'd to Agenor ? 

irus. 
No, my good lord ; I do not come from him ; 
I bear to thee a scroll from one who now 
Is number'd with the dead ; he was my kinsman, 
But I had never seen him till he lay 
Upon his death-bed ; for he left these shores 
Long before I was born, and no one knew 
His place of exile ; — on this mournful day 
He landed, was plague-stricken, and expired. 
My gentle master gave me leave to tend 
His else unsolaced death-bed ; — when he found 
The clammy chilness of the grave steal on, 
He call'd for parchment, and with trembling hand, 
That seem'd to gather firmness from its task, 
Wrote earnestly ; conjured me take the scroll 
Instant to thee ; and died. 

[Irus gives a scroll to Medon, 



76 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

Me don [reading the scroll."] 

These are high tidings. 
Abra ! is not Clemanthe come ? I long 
To tell her all. 

Enter Clemanthe. 
medon. 
Sit down, my pensive child. 
Abra, this boy is faint ; see him refresh'd 
With food and wine before thou lett'st him pass. 

IRUS. 

I have too long been absent from Agenor, 
Who needs my slender help. 

medon. 

Nay, I will use 
Thy master's firmness here, and use it so 
As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Abra, 
Till he has done my bidding. 

[Exeunt Abra and Iuus. 
Now, Clemanthe, 
Though thou hast play'd the truant and the rebel, 
I will not be too strict in my award, 
By keeping from thee news of one to thee 
Most dear — nay, do not blush — I say most dear. 

CLEMANTHE. 

It is of Ion ; — no — I do not blush, 

But tremble. O my father, what of Ion ? 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 77 

ME DON. 

How often have we guess'd his lineage noble ! 
And now 'tis proved. The kinsman of that youth 
Was with another hired to murder him 
A babe ; — they tore him from his mother's breast, 
And to a sea-girt summit, where a rock 
O'erhung a chasm, by the surge's force 
Made terrible, rush'd with him. As the gods 
In mercy order'd it, the foremost ruffian, 
Who bore no burden, pressing through the gloom 
In the wild hurry of his guilty purpose, 
Trod at the extreme verge upon a crag 
Loosen'd by summer from its granite bed, 
And suddenly fell with it ; — with his fall 
Sank the base daring of the man who held 
The infant ; so he placed the unconscious babe 
Upon the spot where it was found by me ; 
Watch'd till he saw the infant safe \ then fled, 
Fearful of question ; and return'd to die. 
That child is Ion. Whom dost guess his sire ? — 
The first in Argos. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Dost thou mean Adrastus ? 
He cannot — must not — be that tyrant's son ! 

MEDON. 

It is most certain. Nay, my thankless girl, 
He hath no touch of his rash father's pride ; 
For Nature, from whose genial lap he smiled 
Upon us first, hath moulded for her own 



78 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

The suppliant of her bounty ; — thou art bless'd ; 
Thus, let me bid thee joy. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Joy, sayst thou — joy! 
Then I must speak — he seeks Adrastus' life ; 
And at this moment, while we talk, may stain 
His soul with parricide. 

MEDON. 

Impossible ! 
Ion, the gentlest 



CLEMANTHE. 

It is true, my father ; 
I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest ; 
I heard him calPd ! 

MEDON. 

Shall I alarm the palace ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

No ; in the fierce confusion, he would fall 
Before our tale could be its safeguard. Gods ! 
Is there no hope, no refuge ? 

MEDON. 

Yes, if Heaven 
Assist us. I bethink me of a passage, 
Which, fashion'd by a king in pious zeal, 
That he might seek the altar of the god 
In secret, from the temple's inmost shrine 
Leads to the royal chamber. I have track'd it 
In youth for pastime. Could I thread it now, 
I yet might save him. 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 79 

CLEMANTHE. 

O, make haste, my father ! 
Shall I attend thee ? 

MEDON. 

No ; thou wouldst impede 
My steps; — thou art fainting; when I have lodged thee safe 
In thy own chamber, I will light the torch, 
And instantly set forward. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Do not waste 
An instant's space on me ; speed, speed, my father — 
The fatal moments fly ; I need no aid ; — 
Thou seest I am calm, quite calm. 

MEDON. 

The gods protect thee ! 

[Exeunt severally. 



END OF ACT III. 



80 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

The Royal Chamber, Adrastus on a couch, asleep. 
Enter Ion with the knife. 

ION. 

Why do I creep thus stealthily along 

With trembling steps ? Am I not arm'd by Heaven 

To execute its mandate on a king 

Whom it hath doom'd ? And shall I falter now, 

While every moment that he breathes may crush 

Some life else happy ? — Can I be deceived 

By some foul passion, crouching in my soul, 

Which takes a radiant form to lure me on ? 

Assure me, gods I — Yes ; I have heard your voices ; 

For I dare pray ye now to nerve my arm 

And see me strike ! [He goes to the couch, 

He 's smiling in his slumber, 
As if some happy thought of innocent days 
Play'd at his heart-strings : must I scare it thence 
With death's sharp agony ? He lies condemn'd 
By the high judgment of supernal Powers, 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 81 

And he shall know their sentence. Wake, Adrastus ! 
Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards ! Soldiers ! 

Recreants ! 
Where tarry ye ? Why smite ye not to earth 
This bold intruder ? — Ha ! no weapon here ! — 
What wouldst thou with me, ruffian ? [Rising. 

ION. 

I am none, 
But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand 
To take thy life, long forfeited — Prepare ! 
Thy hour is come ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Villains ! does no one hear i 

ION. 

Vex not the closing minutes of thy being 
With torturing hope or idle rage ; thy guards, 
Palsied with revelry, are scatter'd senseless, 
While the most valiant of our Argive youths 
Hold every passage by which human aid 
Could reach thee. Present death is the award 
Of Powers who watch above me while I stand 
To execute their sentence. 

ADRASTUS. 

Thou ! — I know thee — 
The youth I spared this morning, in whose ear 
I pour'd the secrets of my bosom. Kill me, 
If thou dar'st do it ; but bethink thee first 



82 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

How the grim memory of thy thankless deed 
Will haunt thee to the grave ! 

ION. 

It is most true ; 
Thou spar'dst my life, and therefore do the gods 
Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall 
Seem the chance forfeit of some single sin, 
And not the great redress of Argos. Now — 
Now, while I parley — Spirits that have left, 
Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh 
To rot untomb'd, glide by, and frown on me, 
Their slow avenger — and the chamber swarms 
With looks of Furies — Yet a moment wait, 
Ye dreadful prompters ! — If there is a friend, 
Whom dying thou wouldst greet by word or token, 
Speak thy last bidding. 

ADRASTUS. 

I have none on earth. 
If thou hast courage, end me ! 

ION. 

Not one friend ! 
Most piteous doom ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Art melted ? 

ION. 

If I am, 

Hope nothing from my weakness ; mortal arms, 
And eyes unseen that sleep not, gird us round, 
And we shall fall together. Be it so ! 



scene i. J ION; A TRAGEDY. 83 

ADRASTUS. 

No ; strike at once ; my hour is come : in thee 
I recognise the minister of Jove, 
And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. 
[Ad r ast us kneels.} 

ION. 

Avert thy face ! 

ADRASTUS. 

No ; let me meet thy gaze ; 
For breathing pity lights thy features up 
Into more awful likeness of a form 
Which once shone on me ; — and which now my sense 
Shapes palpable — in habit of the grave, 
Inviting me to the sad realm where shades 
Of innocents, whom passionate regard 
Link'd with the guilty, are content to pace 
With them the margin of the inky flood 
Mournful and calm ; — 'tis surely there ; — she waves 
Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head, 
As if to bless thee — and I bless thee too, 
Death's gracious angel ! — Do not turn away. 

ION. 

Gods ! to what office have ye doom'd me ! — Now I 
[Ion raises his arm to stab Adrastus, who is kneeling, 
and gazes steadfastly upon him. The voice of Me don 
is heard without, calling Ion ! Ion ! — Ion drops his 
arm.} 

ADRASTUS, 

Be quick, or thou art lost ! 



84 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

[As Ion has again raised his arm to strike, Me don 
rushes in behind him.'] 

MEDON. 

Ion, forbear! 
Behold thy son, Adrastus ! 

[Ion stands for a moment stnpified with horror, drops 
the knife f and falls senseless on the ground.] 
adrastus. 
What strange words 
Are these which call my senses from the death 
They were composed to welcome ? Son ! 'tis false — 
I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him ! 

MEDON. 

That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling, 
One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight 
In wicked haste to slay ; — I '11 give thee proofs. 

ADRASTUS. 

Great Jove, I thank thee ! — raise him gently — proofs ! 
Are there not here the lineaments of her 
Who made me happy once — the voice, now still, 
That bade the long-seal'd fount of love gush out, 
While with a prince's constancy he came 
To lay his noble life down ; and the sure, 
The dreadful proof, that he whose guileless brow 
Is instinct with her spirit, stood above me, 
Arm'd for the traitor's deed? — It is my child ! 
[Ion, reviving, sinks on one knee before Adrastus.] 

ion. 
Father! [Noise without. 



scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 85 

MEDON. 

The clang of arras ! 

ion. [starting up.] 

They come ! they come ! 
They who are leagued with me against thy life. 
Here let us fall ! 

ADRASTUS. 

I will confront them yet. 
Within I have a weapon which has drunk 
A traitor's blood ere now ; — there will I wait them : 
No power less strong than death shall part us now, 
[Exeunt Adrastus and Ion as to an inner chamber.'] 

MEDON. 

Have mercy on him, gods, for the dear sake 
Of your most single-hearted worshipper ! 

[Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and others.] 
ctesiphon. 
What treachery is this — the tyrant fled, 
And Ion fled too ! — Comrades, stay this dotard, 
While I search yonder chamber. 

MEDON. 

Spare him, friends, — 
Spare him to clasp awhile his new-found son ; 
Spare him as Ion's father ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Father ! yes — 
That is indeed a name to bid me spare ; — 
Let me but find him, gods ! 

[He rushes into the inner chamber. 



86 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Medon [to Cassander and the others.] 

Had ye but seen 
What have I seen, ye would have mercy on him. 

Cry the s enters with soldiers. 
Ha, soldiers ! hasten to defend your master ; 

That way 

[As Crythes is about to enter the inner chamber, 
Ctesiphon rushes from it with a bloody dagger, and 
stops them.] 

CTESIPHON. 

It is accomplished ; the foul blot 
Is wiped away. Shade of my murder'd father, 
Look on thy son, and smile ! 

crythes. 

Whose blood is that ? 
It cannot be the king's ! 

CTESIPHON. 

It cannot be ! 
Think'st thou, foul minion of a tyrant's will, 
He was to crush, and thou to crawl for ever I 
Look there, and tremble ! 

CRYTHES. 

Wretch ! thy life shall pay 
The forfeit of this deed. 

[Crythes and soldiers seize Ctesiphon. 
Enter Adrastus mortally wounded, supported by Ion. 
adrastus. 
Here let me rest ; 
In this old chamber did my life begin, 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 87 

And here I '11 end it : Crythes ! thou hast timed 
Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither 
To gaze upon my parting. 

CRYTHES. 



To avenge thee ; 



Here is the traitor ! 



ADRASTUS. 

Set him free at once : — 
Why do ye not obey me ? Ctesiphon, 
I gave thee cause for this ; — believe me now 
That thy true steel has made thy vengeance sure ; 
And as we now stand equal, I will sue 
For a small boon — let me not see thee more. 

CTESTPHON. 

Farewell ! [Exit Ctesiphon. 

Adrastus [to Crythes and the soldiers.] 
Why do ye tarry here ? 
Begone ! — still do ye hover round my couch ? 
If the commandment of a dying king 
Is feeble, as a man who has embraced 
His child for the first time since infancy, 
And presently must part with him for ever, 
I do adjure ye leave us ! 

[Exeunt all but Ion arid Adrastus. 
ion. 
O my father ! 
How is it with thee now ? 

ADRASTUS. 

» Well ; very well ; — 



88 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act lv. 

Avenging Fate hath spent its utmost force 
Against me ; and I gaze upon my son 
With the sweet certainty that nought can part us 
Till all is quiet here. How like a dream 
Seems the succession of my regal pomps 
Since I embraced thy helplessness ! To me 
The interval hath been a weary one : 
How hath it pass'd with thee ? 

ION. 

But that my heart 
Hath sometimes ached for the sweet sense of kindred, 
I had enjoy'd a round of happy years 
As cherish'd youth e'er knew. 

ADRASTUS. 

I bless the gods 
That they have strewn along thy humble path 
Delights unblamed ; and in this hour I seem 
Even as I had lived so ; and I feel 
That I shall live in thee, unless that curse — - 
Oh, if it should survive me ! 

ion. 
Think not of it ; 
The gods have shed such sweetness in this moment, 
That, howsoe'er they deal with me hereafter, 
I shall not deem them angry. Let me call 
For help to stanch thy wound ; thou art strong yet, 
And yet may live to bless me. 

ADRASTUS. 

Do not stir ; 






scenei.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 89 

My strength is ebbing fast ; yet, as it leaves me, 

The spirit of my stainless days of love 

Awakens; and their images of joy, 

Which at thy voice started from blank oblivion, 

When thou wert strange to me, and then half-shown 

Look'd sadly through the mist of guilty years, 

Now glimmer on me in the lovely light 

Which at thy age they wore. Thou art all thy mother's, 

Her elements of gentlest virtue cast 

In mould heroical. 

ION. 

Thy speech grows fainter ; 
Can I do nothing for thee ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Yes ; — my son, 
Thou art the best, the bravest, of a race 
Of rightful monarchs ; thou must mount the throne 
Thy ancestors have fill'd, and by great deeds 
Efface the memory of thy fated sire, 
And win the blessing of the gods for men 
Stricken for him. Swear to me thou wilt do this, 
And I shall die forgiven. 

ION. 

I will. 

ADRASTUS. 

Rejoice, 
Sufferers of Argos ! I am growing weak, 
And my eyes dazzle ; let me rest my hands, 
Ere they have lost their feeling, on thy head. — 



90 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

So ! So ! — thy hair is glossy to the touch 

As when I last enwreath'd its tiny curl 

About my ringer ; I did image then 

Thy reign excelling mine ; it is fulfill'd, 

And I die happy. Bless thee, King of Argos ! [Dies. 

ION. 

He 's dead ! and I am fatherless again. — 
King did he hail me ? shall I make that word 
A spell to bid old happiness awake 
Throughout the lovely land that father'd me 
In my forsaken childhood ? 

[He sees the knife on the ground, and takes it up. 
Most vain dream ! 
This austere monitor had bid thee vanish 
Ere half-reveal'd. Come back, thou truant steel ; 
Half of thy work the gods absolved thee from — 
The rest remains ! Lie there ! 

[He conceals the knife in his vest. Shouts heard without. 

The voice of joy ! 
Is this thy funeral wailing ? O my father ! 
Mournful and brief will be the heritage 
Thou leavest me ; yet I promised thee in death 
To grasp it ; — and I will embrace it now. 
Enter Age nor and others. 

AGENOR. 

Does the king live ? 

ION. 

Alas ! in me. The son 
Of him whose princely spirit is at rest, 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 91 

Claims his ancestral honours. 

AGENOE. 

That high thought 
Anticipates the prayer of Argos, roused 
To sudden joy. The sages wait without 
To greet thee : wilt confer with them to-night, 
Or wait the morning ? 

ION. 

Now ; — the city's state 
Allows the past no sorrow. I attend them. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

Before the Gate of the City, 
Phocion on guard. 

PHOCION. 

Fool that I was to take this idle office 
At most inglorious distance from the scene 
Which shall be freedom's birth-place ; to endure 
The phantasies of danger which the soul 
Uncheer'd by action coldly dallies with 
Till it begins to shiver ! Long ere this, 
If Ion's hand be firm, the deed is past, 
And yet no shout announces that the bonds 
Of tyranny are broken. [Shouts at a distance, 

Hark ! 'tis done ! 



92 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Enter Ctesiphon. 
All hail, my brother freeman ! — art not so ? — 
Thy looks are haggard — is the tyrant slain ? 
Is liberty achieved ? 

CTESIPHON. 

The king is dead ; 
This arm — I bless the righteous Furies ! — slew him. 

PHOCION. 

Did Ion quail, then ? 

CTESIPHON. 

Ion ! — clothe thy speech 
In phrase more courtly ; he is king of Argos, 
Accepted as the tyrant's son, and reigns. 

PHOCION. 

It cannot be ; I can believe him born 

Of such high lineage ; yet he will not change 

His own rich treasury of unruffled thoughts 

For all the frigid glories that invest 

The loveless state in which the monarch dwells 

A terror and a slave. [Shouts again. 

CTESIPHON. 

Dost hear that shout ? 
'Tis raised for him ! — the craven-hearted world 
Is ever eager thus to hail a master, 
And patriots smite for it in vain. Our Soldiers, 
In the gay recklessness of men who sport 
With life as with a plaything ; Citizens 
On wretched beds gaping for show ; and Sages, 
Vain of a royal sophist, madly join 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 93 

In humble prayer that he would deign to tread 
Upon their necks ; and he is pleased to grant it. 

PHOCION. 

He shall not grant it ! If my life, my sense, 

My heart's affections, and my tongue's free scope 

Wait the dominion of a mortal will, 

What is the sound to me, whether my soul 

Bears " Ion" or " Adrastus" burnt within it 

As my soul's owner ? Ion tyrant ? No ! 

Grant me a moment's pleading with his heart, 

Which has not known a selfish throb till now, 

And thou shalt see him smile this greatness from him. 

CTESIPHON. 

Go teach the eagle when in azure heaven 
He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey, 
Shivering through the death-circle of its fear, 
To pause and let it 'scape, and thou mayst win 
Man to forego the sparkling round of power, 
When it floats airily within his grasp ! 

PHOCION. 

Why thus severe 1 Our nature's common wrongs 
Affect thee not ; and that which touch'd thee nearly 
Is well avenged. 

CTESIPHON. 

Not while the son of him 
Who smote my father reigns ! I little guess 'd 
Thou wouldst require a prompter to awake 
The memory of the oath so freshly sworn, 
Or of the place assign 'd to thee by lot, 



94 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Should our first champion fail to crush the race — 
Mark me ! — " the race " of him my arm has dealt with. 
Now is the time, the palace all. confused, 
And the prince dizzy with strange turns of fortune, 
To do thy part. 

PHOCION. 

Have mercy on my weakness ! 
If thou hadst known this comrade of my sports, 
One of the same small household whom his mirth 
Unfailing gladden'd ; — if a thousand times 
Thou hadst, by strong prosperity made thoughtless, 
Touch'd its unfather'd nature in its nerve 
Of agony, and felt no chiding glance ; — 
Hadst thou beheld him overtax his strength 
To serve the wish his genial instinct guess'd, 
Till his dim smile the weariness betray'd, 
Which it would fain dissemble ; hadst thou known 
In sickness the sweet magic of his care, 
Thou couldst not ask it. — Hear me, Ctesiphon ! — 
I had a deadly fever once, and slaves 
Fled me : he watch'd, and glided to my bed, 
And sooth 'd my dull ear with discourse which grew 
By nice degrees to ravishment, till pain 
Seem'd an heroic sense, which made me kin 
To the great deeds he pictured, and the brood 
Of dizzy weakness flickering through the gloom 
Of my small curtain'd prison caught the hues 
Of beauty spangling out in glorious change ; 
And it became a luxury to lie 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 95 

And faintly listen. Canst thou bid me slay him ? 

CTESIPHON. 

The deed be mine. Thou 'It not betray me 1 

[Going. 

PHOCION. 

Hold! 
If by our dreadful compact he must fall, 
I will not smite him with my coward thought 
Winging a distant arm ; I will confront him 
Arm'd with delicious memories of our youth, 
And pierce him through them all. 

CTESIPHON. 

Be speedy, then ! 

PHOCION. 

Fear not that I shall prove a laggard, charged 
With weight of such a purpose. — Fate commands, 
And I live now but to perform her bidding. 

[Exeunt severally* 



SCENE III. 



A Terrace in the Garden of the Palace, by Moonlight. 
Enter Ion and Agenor. 

AGENOR, 

Wilt thou not in to rest 1 

ION. 

My rest is here — 



96 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Beneath the greatness of the heavens, which awes 
My spirit, toss'd by sudden change, and torn 
By various passions, to repose. Yet age 
Requires more genial nourishment — pray seek it — 
I will but stay thee to inquire once more 
If any symptom of returning health 
Bless the wan city ? 

AGENOR. 

No — the perishing 
Lift up their painful heads to bless thy name, 
And their eyes kindle as they utter it ; 
But still they perish. 

ION. 

So !— give instant order, 
The rites which shall confirm me in my throne 
Be solemnized to-morrow. 

AGENOR. 

How ! so soon, 
While the more sacred duties to the dead 
Remain unpaid ? 

ION. 

Let them abide my time — 
They will not tarry long. I see thee gaze 
With wonder on me — do my bidding now, 
And trust me till to morrow. Pray go in, 
The night will chill thee else. 

AGENOR. 

Farewell, my lord ! [Exit. 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 97 

ION. 

Now all is stillness in my breast — how soon 
To be displaced by more profound repose, 
In which no thread of consciousness shall live 
To feel how calm it is ! — O lamp serene, 
Do I lift up to thee undazzled eyes 
For the last time ? Shall I enjoy no more 
Thy golden haziness which seem'd akin 
To my young fortune's dim felicity ? 
And when it coldly shall embrace the urn 
That shall contain my ashes, will no thought 
Of all the sweet ones cherish'd by thy beams 
Awake to tremble with them ? Vain regret ! 
The pathway of my duty lies in sunlight, 
And I would tread it with as firm a step, 
Though it should terminate in cold oblivion, 
As if Elysian pleasures at its close 
Gleam'd palpable to sight as things of earth. 
Who passes there ? 

[Enter Phocion behind, who strikes at Ion with a 

dagger.] 

PHOCION. 

This to the king of Argos ! 
[I on struggles with him, seizes the dagger, which he 
throws away."] 

ION. 

I will not fall by thee, poor wavering novice 



98 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

In the assassin's trade! — thy arm is feeble — 

[He confronts Phocion. 
Phocion ! — was this well aim'd ? thou didst not mean — 

PHOCION. 

I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance 
Of yesterday's great vow.'. 

ION. 

And couldst thou think 
/had forgotten ? 

PHOCION. 

Thou? 

ION. 

Couldst thou believe, 
That one, whose nature had been arm'd to stop 
The life-blood's current in a fellow's veins, 
Would hesitate when gentler duty turn'd 
His steel to nearer use ? To-morrow's dawn 
Shall see me wield the sceptre of my fathers : 
Come, watch beside my throne, and, if I fail 
In sternest duty which my country needs, 
My bosom will be open to thy steel, 
As now to thy embrace ! 

PHOCION. 

Thus let me fall 
Low at thy feet, and kneeling here receive 
Forgiveness ; do not crush me with more love 
Than lies in the word " pardon." 

ION. 

And that word 



scENii in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 99 

I will not speak ; — what have I to forgive ? 
A devious fancy, and a muscle raised 
Obedient to its impulse ! Dost thou think 
The tracings of a thousand kindnesses, 
Which taught me all I guess'd of brotherhood, 
Are in the rashness of a moment lost ? 

PHOCION. 

I cannot look upon thee ; let me go, 
And lose myself in darkness. 

ION. 

Nay, old playmate, 
We part not thus — the duties of my state 
Will shortly end our fellowship ; but spend 
A few sweet minutes with me. Dost remember 
How in a night like this we climb'd yon walls — 
Two vagrant urchins, and with tremulous joy 
Skimm'd through these statue-border'd walks that gleam'd 
In bright succession ? Let us tread them now ; 
And think we are but older by a day, 
And that the pleasant walk of yesternight 
We are to-night retracing. Come, my friend ! — ■ 
What, drooping yet ! thou wert not wont to seem 
So stubborn — cheerily, my Phocion — come! [Exeunt* 

END OF ACT IV, 



100 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 

TIME THE MORNING OF THE SECOND DAY, 

The Terrace of the Palace. 
Two Soldiers on guard, 

1 SOLDIER. 

A stirring season, comrade ! our new prince 

Has leap'd as eagerly into his seat 

As he had languish 'd an expectant heir 

Weary of nature's kindness to old age. 

He was esteem'd a modest stripling ; — strange 

That he should, with such reckless hurry, seize 

The gaudy shows of power ! 

2 SOLDIER. 

'Tis honest nature ; 
The royal instinct was but smouldering in him, 
And now it blazes forth. I pray the gods 
He may not give us cause to mourn his sire. 

1 SOLDIER. 

No more ; he comes. 



scene i.J ION; A TRAGEDY. 101 

Enter Ion. 

ion. 
Why do ye loiter here ? 
Are all the statues decked with festal wreaths 
As I commanded ? 

1 SOLDIER. 

We have been on guard 
Here by Agenor's order since the nightfall. 

ION. 

On guard ! Well, hasten now and see it done ; 

I need no guards. [Exeunt Soldiers, 

The awful hour draws near ; 
I am composed to meet it. — Phocion comes : 
He will unman me ; yet he must not go, 
Thinking his presence painful. 

[Enter Phocion.] 

Friend, good morrow ! 
Thou play'st the courtier early. 

PHOCION. 

Canst thou speak 
In that old tone of common cheerfulness, 
That blithely promises delightful years, 
And hold thy mournful purpose 1 

ION. 

I have drawn 
From the selectest fountain of repose 
A blessed calm : — when I lay down to rest, 



102 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

I fear'd lest bright remembrances of childhood 
Should with untimely visitation mock me ; 
But deep and dreamless have my slumbers been. 
If sight of thee renews the thoughts of life 
Too busily, — I prize the love that wakes them. 

PHOCION. 

Oh, cherish them, and let them plead with thee 

To grant my prayer, — that thou wouldst live for Argos, 

Not die for her ; — thy gracious life shall win 

More than thy death the favour of the gods, 

And charm the marble aspect of grim Fate 

Into a blessed change : I, who am vow'd, 

And who so late was arm'd Fate's minister, 

Implore thee ! 

ION. 

Speak to me no more of life ; 
There is a dearer name I would recall — 
Thou understand 'st me — 

Enter Agenor. 

AGENOR. 

Thou hast forgot to name 
Who shall be bidden to this evening's feast. 

ION. 

The feast ! most true ; I had forgotten it. 

Bid whom thou wilt ; but let there be large store, 

If our sad walls contain it, for the wretched 

Whom hunger palsies. It may be few else 

Will taste it with a relish. [Exit Agenor, 



scene i] ION; A TRAGEDY. 103 

[Ion resumes his address to Phocion, and continues it 
broken by the interruptions which follow,] 
I would speak 
A word of her who yester-morning rose 
To her light duties with as blithe a heart 
As ever yet its equal beating veiFd 
In moveless alabaster ; — plighted now, 
In liberal hour, to one whose destiny 
Shall freeze the sources of enjoyment in it, 
And make it heavy with the life-long pang 
A widow'd spirit bears ! — 

Enter Cleon. 
cleon. 

The heralds wait 
To learn the hour at which the solemn games 
Shall be proclaim'd. 

ION. 

The games ! — yes, I remember 
That sorrow's darkest pageantries give place 
To youth's robustest pastimes — Death and Life 
Embracing : — at the hour of noon. 

CLEON. 

The wrestlers 
Pray thee to crown the victor. 

ION. 

If I live, 
Their wish shall govern me. [Exit Cleon. 

Could I recall 



104 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

One hour, and bid thy sister think of me 
With gentle sorrow, as a playmate lost, 
I should escape the guilt of having stopp'd 
The pulse of hope in the most innocent soul 
That ever passion ruffled. Do not talk 
Of me as I shall seem to thy kind thoughts, 
But harshly as thou canst ; and if thou steal 
From thy rich store of popular eloquence 
Some bitter charge against the faith of kings, 
'Twill be an honest treason. 

Enter Cassander. 

CASSANDER. 

Pardon me, 
If I entreat thee to permit a few 
Of thy once-cherish'd friends to bid thee joy 
Of that which swells their pride. 

ION. 

They '11 madden me. — 
Dost thou not see me circled round with care ? 
Urge me no more. 

[As Cassander is going, Ion leaves Phocion, and 
comes to him.] 
Come back, Cassander ! see 
How greatness frets the temper. Keep this ring- 
It may remind thee of the pleasant hours 
That we have spent together, ere our fortunes 
Grew separate ; and with thy gracious speech 
Excuse me to our friends. [Exit Cassander. 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 105 

PHOCION. 

Tis time we seek 
The temple. 

ION. 

Phocion ! must I to the temple ? 

PHOCION. 

There sacrificial rites must be perform'd 
Before thou art enthroned. 

ION. 

Then I must gaze 
On things which will arouse the struggling thoughts 
I had subdued — perchance may meet with her 
Whose name I dare not utter. I am ready. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 
The Temple. 

CLEMANTHE, ABRA. 
ABLIA. 

Be comforted, dear lady ; — he must come 
To sacrifice. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Recall that churlish word, 
That stubborn " »*«$&/• that bounds my living hopes, 
As with an iron circle. He must come ! 



106 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

How piteous is affection's state, that cleaves 
To such a wretched prop ! I had flown to him 
Long before this, but that I fear'd my presence 
Might prove a burthen, — and he sends no word, 
No token that he thinks of me ! Art sure 
That he must come ? The hope has torture in it ; 
Yet it is all my bankrupt heart hath left 
To feed upon. 

A BRA. 

I see him now with Phocion 
Pass through the inner court. 

CLEMANTHE. 

He will not come 
This way, then, to the place for sacrifice. 
I can endure no more : speed to him, Abra ; - 
And bid him, if he holds Clemanthe's life 
Worthy a minute's loss, to seek me here. 

ABRA. 

Dear lady ! — 

CLEMANTHE. 

Do not answer me, but run, 
Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants 
To gaze upon my sorrow. [Exit Abra. 

It is hard ; 
Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace 
In that high fortune which has made him strange. 
He bends this way — but slowly — mournfully. 
O, he is ill ; how has my slander wronged him ! 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 107 

Enter Ion. 
ion. 
What wouldst thou with me, lady 1 

CLEMANTHE. 

Is it so ? 
Nothing, my lord, save to implore thy pardon, 
That the departing gleams of a bright dream, 
From which I scarce had waken'd, made me bold 
To crave a word with thee ; — but all are fled — 
And I have nought to seek. 

ION. 

A goodly dream ; 
But thou art right to think it was no more, 
And study to forget it. 

CLEMANTHE. 

To forget it ? 
Indeed, my lord, I cannot wish to lose 
What, being past, is all my future hath, 
All I shall live for : do not grudge me this, 
The brief space I shall need it. 

ION. 

Speak not, fair one, 
In tone so mournful, for it makes me feel 
Too sensibly the hapless wretch I am, 
That troubled the deep quiet of thy soul 
In that pure fountain which reflected heaven, 
For a brief taste of rapture. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Dost thou yet 



108 ION; A TRAGEDY [act v. 

Esteem it rapture, then ? My foolish heart, 

Be still ! Yet wherefore should a crown divide us ? 

O, my dear Ion ! — let me call thee so 

This once at least — it could not in my thoughts 

Increase the distance that there was between us, 

When, rich in spirit, thou to strangers' eyes 

Seem'd a poor foundling. 

ION. 

It must separate us ! 
Think it no harmless bauble, but a curse 
Will freeze the current in the veins of youth, 
And from familiar touch of genial hand, 
From household pleasures, from sweet daily tasks, 
From airy thought, free wanderer of the heavens, 
For ever banish me ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou dost accuse 
Thy state too hardly. It may give some room, 
Some little space, amidst its radiant folds, 
For love to make its nest in ! 

ION. 

Not for me : 
My pomp must be most lonesome, far removed 
From that sweet fellowship of human kind 
The slave rejoices in : my solemn robes 
Shall wrap me as a panoply of ice, 
And the attendants who may throng around me 
Shall want the flatteries which may basely warm 
The sceptral thing they circle. Dark and cold 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 109 

Stretches the path, which, when I wear the crown, 
1 needs must enter : — the great gods forbid 
That thou shouldst follow in it ! 

CLE MAN THE. 

O unkind ! 
And shall we never see each other ? 

Ion [after a pause.] 
Yes! 
I have ask'd that dreadful question of the hills 
That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 
That lucid flow for ever ; of the stars, 
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit 
Hath trod in glory : all were dumb ; but now, 
While I thus gaze upon thy living face, 
I feel the love that kindles through its beauty 
Can never wholly perish ; — we shall meet 
Again, Clemanthe ! 

CLE MAN THE. 

Bless thee for that name ; 
Call me that name again ; thy words sound strangely, 
Yet they breathe kindness. Shall we meet indeed ? 
Think not I would intrude upon thy cares, 
Thy councils, or thy pomps ; — to sit at distance, 
To weave, with the nice labour which preserves 
The rebel pulses even, from gay threads 
Faint records of thy deeds, and sometimes catch 
The falling music of a gracious word, 
Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be 



110 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

Comfort enough : — do not deny me this ; 
Or if stern fate compel thee to deny, 
Kill me at once ! 

ION. 

No ; thou must live, my fair one : 
There are a thousand joyous things in life, 
Which pass unheeded in a life of joy 
As thine hath been, till breezy sorrow comes 
To ruffle it ; and daily duties paid 
Hardly at first, at length will bring repose 
To the sad mind that studies to perform them. 
Thou dost not mark me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Oh, I do ! I do ! 

ION. 

If for thy brother's and thy father's sake 
Thou art content to live, the healer Time 
Will reconcile thee to the lovely things 
Of this delightful world, — and if another, 
A happier — no, I cannot bid thee love 
Another ! — I did think I could have said it, 
But 'tis in vain. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou art mine own then still ? 

ION. 

I am thine own ! thus let me clasp thee ; nearer j 
O joy too thrilling and too short ! 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. Ill 

Enter Agenor. 

AGENOR. 

My Lord, 
The sacrificial rites await thy presence. 

ION. 

I come. — One more embrace — the last, the last 

In this world ! Now farewell ! [Exit. 

CLEMANTHE. 

The last embrace ! 
Then he has cast me off! — No, 'tis not so ; 
Some mournful secret of his fate divides us : 
I '11 struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort 
From seeing him uplifted. I will look 
Upon him in his throne ; Minerva's shrine 
Will shelter me from vulgar gaze ; I '11 hasten, 
And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there ! [Exit. 



SCENE III. 

The Great Square of the City — on one side a throne of 
state prepared,—on the other an altar, — the statues 
decorated with garlands. 

Enter Ctesiphon and Cassander. 

CTES1PHON. 

Vex me no more, by telling me, Cassander, 
Of his fair speech : I prize it at its worth : 
Thou 'It see how he will act when seated firm 



]12 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v 

Upon the throne the craven tyrant fill'd, 
Whose blood he boasts, unless some honest arm 
Should shed it first. 

CASSANDER. 

Hast thou forgot the time 
When thou thyself vvert eager to foretell 
His manhood's glory from his childish virtues ? 
Let me not think thee one of those fond prophets, 
Who are well pleased still to foretell success, 
So it remain their dream. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thou dost forget 
What has chill'd fancy and delight within me — 

[Music at a distance. 
Hark ! — servile trumpets speak his coming — watch 
How power will change him. [They stand aside. 

The Procession. Enter Medon, Age nor, Phocion, 
Timocles, Cleon, Sages and People; Ion last, in 
royal robes. He advances amidst shouts, and speaks. 

ION. 

I thank you for your greeting — Shout no more, 
But in deep silence raise your hearts to Heaven, 
That it may strengthen one so young and frail 
As I am, for the business of this hour. 
Must I sit here ? 

# 

MEDON. 

Permit thy earliest friend, 



scene in.] * ION; A TRAGEDY. 113 

Who has so often propp'd thy tottering steps, 
To lead thee to thy throne, — and thus fulfil 
His fondest vision. 

ION. 

Thou art still most kind — 

MEDON. 

Nay, do not think of me, my son ! my son ! 
What ails thee ? When thou shouldst reflect the joy 
Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave 
Marbles thy face. 

ION. 

Am I indeed so pale ? 
It is a solemn office I assume ; 
Yet thus, with Phoebus' blessing, I embrace it. 

[Sits on the throne. 
Stand forth, Agenor ! 

AGENOR. 

I await thy will. 

ION. 

To thee I look as to the wisest friend 

Of this afflicted people : — thou must leave 

Awhile the quiet which thy life hath earn'd, 

To rule our councils; fill the seats of justice 

With good men not so absolute in goodness, 

As to forget what human frailty is ; 

And order my sad country. 

AGENOR. 

Pardon me — 



114 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v 

ION. 

Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request ; 

Thou never couldst deny me what I sought 

In boyish wantonness, and shalt not grudge 

Thy wisdom to me, till our state revive 

From its long anguish ; — it will not be long 

If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power 

Whether I live or die. 

AGENOR. 

Die ! I am old — 

ION. 

Death is not jealous of thy mild decay, 
Which gently wins thee his : exulting Youth 
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride, 
And makes his horrid ringers quick to clasp 
His shivering prey at noontide. Let me see 
The captain of the guard. 

CRYTHES. 

I kneel to crave 
Humbly the favour which thy sire bestow'd 
On one who loved him well. 

ION. 

I cannot thank thee, 
That wakest the memory of my father's weakness ;** 
But I will not forget that thou hast shared 
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit, 
And learn'd the need of luxury. I grant 
For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share 
Of such rich treasurers my stores contain, 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. [\£ 

To grace thy passage to some distant land, 
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword, 
May glorious laurels wreath it ! In our realm 
We shall not need it longer. 

CRYTHES. 

Dost intend 
To banish the firm troops before whose valour 
Barbarian millions shrink appall'd, and leave 
Our city naked to the first assault 
Of reckless foes ? 

ION. 

No, Crythes ! — in ourselves, 
In our own honest hearts and chainless hands 
Will be our safeguard : — while we seek no use 
Of arms, we would not have our children blend 
With their first innocent wishes ; while the love 
Of Argos and of justice shall be one 
To their young reason ; while their sinews grow 
Firm midst the gladness of heroic sports ; 
We shall not ask to guard our country's peace 
One selfish passion, or one venal sword. 
I would not grieve thee ; — but thy valiant troop — 
For I esteem them valiant — must no more 
With luxury which suits a desperate camp 
Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor, 
Ere night. 

CRYTHES. 

My lord— 



116 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

ION. 

No more — my word hath pass'd. 
Medon, there is no office I can add 
To those thou hast grown old in ; thou wilt guard 
The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home — 
Thy too delightful home — befriend the stranger 
As thou didst me ; — there sometimes waste a thought 
On thy spoil'd inmate ! 

MEDON. 

Think of thee, my lord ? 
Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign — 

ION. 

Prithee no more. Argives ! I have a boon 
To crave of you ; — whene'er I shall rejoin 
In death the father from whose heart in life 
Stern fate divided me, think gently of him ! 
For ye, who saw him in his full-blown pride, 
Knew little of affections crush'd within, 
And wrongs which frenzied him ; yet never more 
Let the great interests of the state depend 
Upon the thousand chances that may sway 
A piece of human frailty ! Swear to me 
That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves 
The means of sovereign rule : — our narrow space, 
So happy in its confines, so compact, 
Needs not the magic of a single name 
Which wider regions may require to draw 
Their interests into one ; but, circled thus, 
Like a bless'd family by simple laws, 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 117 

May tenderly be govern'd ; all degrees 

Moulded together as a single form 

Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords 

Of sympathy pervading shall suffuse 

In times of quiet with one bloom, and fill 

With one resistless impulse, if the hosts 

Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me 

That ye will do this ! 

MEDON. 

Wherefore ask this now ? 
Thou shalt live long ; — the paleness of thy face 
Which late appall'd me is grown radiant now, 
And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy 
Of lustrous years. 

ION. 

The gods approve me then ? 
Yet I will use the function of a king, 
And claim obedience. Promise if I leave 
No issue, that the sovereign power shall live 
In the affections of the general heart, 
And in the wisdom of the best. 

medon and others. 

We swear it ! 

ION. 

Hear and record the oath, immortal powers ! 

Now give me leave a moment to approach 

That altar unattended. [He goes to the altar. 

Gracious gods ! 
In whose mild service my glad youth was spent, 



]18 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

Look on me now ; — and if there is a Power, 
As at this solemn time I feel there is, 
Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes 
The spirit of the beautiful that lives 
In earth and heaven ; — to ye I offer up 
This conscious being, full of life and love, 
For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow 
End all her sorrows ! 

[Stabs himself > and falls. Ctesiphon rushes to support 
him.'] 

Ctesiphon, thou art 
Avenged, and wilt forgive me. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thou hast pluck'd 
The poor disguise of hatred from my soul, 
And made me feel how shallow is the wish 
Of vengeance. Could I die to save thee ! 

Clemanthe rushes forward. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Hold ! 
Let me support him — stand away — indeed 
I have best right, although ye know it not, 
To cling to him in death. 

ion. 

This is a joy 
I did not hope for — this is sweet indeed. — 
Bend thine eyes on me ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

AnoS for this it was 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 119 

Thou wouldst have wean'd me from thee ? Couldst thou 

think 
I would be so divorced ? 

ION. 

Thou art right, Clemanthe, — 
It was a shallow and an idle thought ; 
Tis past ; no show of coldness frets us now ; 
No vain disguise, my love. Yet thou wilt think 
On that which, when 1 feign'd I truly said — 
Wilt thou not, sweet one ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

I will treasure all. 

Enter I it us. 
mus. 
I bring you glorious tidings — Ha! no joy 
Can enter here. 

ION. 

Yes — is it as I hope ? 

IRUS. 

The pestilence abates. 

Ion. [springs on his feet .] 
Do ye not hear ? 
Why shout ye not ? — ye are strong — think not of me ; 
Hearken ! the curse my ancestry has spread 
O'er Argos is dispelPd — Agenor, give 
This gentle youth his freedom, who hath brought 
Sweet tidings that I shall not die in vain — 



120 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v 

And Medon ! cherish him as thou hast one 

Who dying blesses thee ; — my own Clemanthe ! 

Let this console thee also — Argos lives — 

The offering is accepted — all is well ! [Dies 



The curtain falls. 



SONNETS. 



i. 

EVENING SERVICE 

PERFORMED BY DR. VALPY AT READING SCHOOL. 

There is a holy magic in that tone, 

Can wake from Memory's selectest cell 

The hour when first upon my heart it fell 

Like dew from heaven : — the years that since have flown 

Seem airy dreams ; — yet not of self alone 

Those sacred strains are eloquent ; — they tell 

Of numbers temper'd by their simple spell 

In boyhood's unreflecting prime to own 

Their kindred with their fellows — best of lore !— 

Who to this spot, as Persians to the East, 

Turn reverential thoughts from every shore 

Which holds them ; nor forbear till life hath ceased 

With child-like love $ blessing to implore 

On thee, mild Charity's unspotted Priest ! 



122 SONNETS. 



II. 
THE FORBURY, AT READING, 

VISITED ON A MISTY EVENING IN AUTUMN. 

Soft uplands, that in boyhood's earliest days 
Seeui'd mountain -like and distant, fain once more 
Would I behold you ; but the autumn hoar 
Hath veil'd your pensive groves in evening haze ; 
Yet do I wait till on my searching gaze 
Your outline lives — more dear than if ye wore 
An April sunset's consecrating rays — 
For, even thus the images of yore 
Which ye awaken glide from misty years 
Dream-like and solemn, and but half unfold 
Their tale of glorious hopes, religious fears, 
And visionary schemes of giant mould ; 
Whose dimmest trace the world-worn heart reveres, 
And, with love's grasping weakness, strives to hold. 



SONNETS, 123 



III. 



ON HEARING THE SHOUTS OF THE PEOPLE 

AT THE READING ELECTION IN THE SUMMER 1826, 



AT A DISTANCE. 



Hark ! from the distant town the long acclaim 

On the charm'd silence of the evening breaks 

With startling interruption ; — yet it wakes 

Thought of that voice of never-dying fame 

Which on my boyish meditation came 

Here, at an hour like this ; — my soul partakes 

A moment's gloom, that yon fierce contest slakes 

Its thirst of high emprise and glorious aim : 

Yet wherefore ? Feelings that from heaven are shed 

Into these tenements of flesh, ally 

Themselves to earthly passions, lest, unfed 

By warmth of human sympathies, they idie ; 

And shall — earth's fondest aspirations dead — 

Fulfil their first and noblest prophecy. 



124 SONNETS, 



IV. 
VIEW OF THE VALLEY OF READING, 

FROM TILEHURST, AT THE CLOSE OF THE SAME ELECTION. 

Too long have I regarded thee, fair vale, 

But as a scene of struggle which denies 

All pensive joy ; and now with childhood's eyes 

In old tranquillity, I bid thee hail ; 

And welcome to my soul thy own sweet gale, 

Which wakes from loveliest woods the melodies 

Of long-lost fancy — Never may there fail 

Within thy circlet, spirits born to rise 

In honour — whether won by Freedom rude 

In her old Spartan majesty, or wrought 

With partial, yet no base regard, to brood 

O'er usages by time with sweetness fraught ; 

Be thou their glory-tinted solitude, 

The cradle and the home of generous thought ! 



SONNETS. 125 



TO THE THAMES AT WESTMINSTER, 

IN RECOLLECTION OF THE BANKS OF THE SAME RIVER 
AT CAVERSHAM, NEAR READING. 

With no cold admiration do I gaze 

Upon thy pomp of waters, matchless stream ! 

But home-sick fancy kindles with the beam 

That on thy lucid bosom coyly plays ; 

And glides delighted through thy crystal ways, 

Till on her eye those wave-fed poplars gleam, 

Beneath whose shade her first etherial maze 

She fashion'd ; where she traced in clearest dream 

Thy mirror'd course of wood-enshrined repose 

Besprent with island haunts of spirits bright ; 

And widening on — till, at the vision's close, 

Great London, only then a name of might 

For childish thought to build on, proudly rose 

A rock-throned city clad in heavenly light. 



126 SONNETS. 



VI. 



TO THE SAME RIVER. 



I may not emulate their lofty aim, 
Who, in divine imagination, bold, 
With mighty hills and streams communion hold, 
As living friends ; and scarce I dare to claim 
Acquaintance with thee in thy scenes of fame, 
Wealthiest of Rivers ! though in days of old 
I loved thee where thy waters sylvan roll'd, 
And in some sense would deem thee yet the same. 
As love perversely cleaves to some old mate 
Estranged by fortune ; in his very pride 
Seems lifted ; waxes in his greatness great ; 
And silent hails the lot it prophesied, — 
Content to think in manhood's palmy state 
Some lingering traces of the child abide. 



SONNETS. 127 



VII. 



TO W. C. MACREADY, ESQ. 

ON HIS PERFORMANCE OF WERNER, IN LORD BYROn's 
TRAGEDY OF THAT NAME. 

learned in Affection's thousand ways J 

1 thought thy art had proved its happiest power, 
When thou didst bend above the opening flower 
Of sweet Virginia's beauty, and with praise 
Measured in words but fineless in the gaze 

Of the proud sire, her gentle secret won : 
Or when the patriot archer's hardy son 
Was school'd by doting sternness for the hour 
Of glorious peril ; but the just designs 
Were ready : now thy soul's affections glow, 
By thy own genius train'd, through frigid lines, 
And make a scorner's bloodless fancy show 
When Love disdain'd round its cold idol twines. 
How mighty are its weakness and its woe ! 



128 SONNETS. 

VIII. 
FAME— THE SYMBOL AND PROOF OF IMMORTALITY. 

The names that slow Oblivion have defied, 
And passionate Ambition's wildest shocks 
Stand in lone grandeur, like eternal rocks, 
To cast broad shadows o'er the silent tide 
Of Time's unebbing flood, whose waters glide, 
To ponderous darkness from their secret spring, 
And, bearing on each transitory thing, 
Leave those old monuments in loneliest pride. 
There stand they — fortresses uprear'd by man, 
Whose earthly frame is mortal ; symbols high 
Of life unchanging, — strength that cannot die ; 
Proofs that our nature is not of a span, 
But of immortal essence, and allied 
To life and joy and love unperishing. 



THE END. 



PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, 
RED LION COURT. FLEET STREET. 




S^yy At.^ y- c 



J^2 J/^ 



2^-V-^^C 



A SPEECH 



DELIVERED BV 



THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, 

Jjtrgtant at ttato, 
IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, 

ON 

WEDNESDAY, 25& APRIL, 1838, 

ON MOVING THE SECOND READING OE 

THE BILL TO AMEND THE LAW OF COPYRIGHT 



LONDON : 
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 

MDCCCXXXVI1I. 



46575 



LONDON : 

BKADBUKY AM) EVANS, I KIN i BUS, 

WHITF.FniAKS. 



SPEECH, 

&c. &c. 



Mr. Speaker, 
When I had the honour last year to move the second 
reading of a bill essentially similar to the present, I found 
it unnecessary to trouble the house with a single remark ; 
for scarcely a trace then appeared of the opposition which 
has since gathered around it. I do not, however, regret 
that the measure was not carried through the legislature 
by the current of feeling which then prevailed in its 
favour, but that opportunity has been afforded for the 
full discussion of the claims on which it is founded, and 
of the consequences to individuals and to the public that 
may be expected from its operation. Believing, as I do, 
that the interests of those who, by intellectual power, 
laboriously and virtuously exerted, contribute to the 
delight and instruction of mankind — of those engaged in 
the mechanical processes by which those labours are 
made effectual — and of the people who at once enjoy and 
reward them, are essentially one ; believing that it is 
impossible at the same time to enhance the reward of 
authors, and to injure those who derive their means of 



6 

subsistence from them, and desiring only that this bill 
shall succeed if it shall be found, on the fullest dis- 
cussion, that it will serve the cause of intellect in its 
noblest and most expanded sense, I rejoice that all classes 
who are interested in reality or in belief in the proposed 
change, have had the means of presenting their state- 
ments and their reasonings to the consideration of Par- 
liament, and of urging them with all the zeal which an 
apprehension of pecuniary loss can inspire. I do not, 
indeed, disguise that the main and direct object of the 
bill is to insure to authors of the highest and most en- 
during merit a larger share in the fruits of their own 
industry and genius than our law now accords to them ; 
and whatever fate may attend the endeavour, I feel with 
satisfaction that it is the first which has been made sub- 
stantially for the benefit of authors, and sustained by no 
interest except that which the appeal on their behalf to 
the gratitude of those whose minds they have enriched, 
and whose lives they have gladdened, has enkindled. 
The statutes of Anne and of George III., especially the 
last, were measures suggested and sustained by publishers ; 
and it must be consoling to the silent toilers after fame, who 
in this country have no ascertained rank, no civil distinc- 
tion, in their hours of weariness and anxiety to feel that 
their claim to consideration has been cheerfully recognised 
by Parliament, and that their cause, however feebly pre- 
sented, has been regarded with respect and with sympathy. 
In order that I may trespass as briefly as I can on 
the indulgence with which this subject has been treated, 
I will attempt to narrow the controversy of to-night 



7 

by stating at once what I regard to be the principle 
of this bill, and call on honourable members now to 
affirm, and what I regard as matters of mere detail, 
which it is unnecessary at this moment to consider. 
That principle is, that the present term of copyright is 
much too short for the attainment of that justice which 
society owes to authors, especially to those (few though 
they be) whose reputation is of slow growth and of 
enduring character. Whether that term shall be ex- 
tended from its present length to sixty years, or to some 
intermediate period — whether it shall commence at the 
death of the author or at the date of first publication — in 
what manner it shall be reckoned in the cases of works 
given to the world in portions — are questions of detail on 
which I do not think the house are to-night required to 
decide. So the prohibition of extracts made merely for 
the compiler's gain, which, however, is merely declaratory 
of the present law — of unauthorised abridgments, which is 
new — and some provisions which were introduced merely 
from an anxiety to protect subsisting interests, obviously 
fall into the same class. On the one hand, I do not ask 
honourable members to vote for the second reading merely 
because they think there are some uncertainties in the 
law of copyright which it is desirable to remove, or some 
minor defects which they are prepared to remedy. On the 
other hand, I would entreat them not to reject this bill on 
account of any objections to its mere details, but as they 
may think the legalised property of authors sufficiently 
prolonged and secured, or requiring a substantial exten- 
sion, to oppose or to support it. 



8 

In maintaining the claim of authors to this extension, 
I will not intrude on the time of the house with any 
discussion on the question of law ; whether perpetual 
copyright had existence by our common law ; or of the 
philosophical question whether the claim to this extent 
is founded in natural justice. On the first point, it is 
sufficient for me to repeat, what cannot be contradicted, 
that the existence of the legal right was recognised by 
a large majority of the judges, with Lord Mansfield at 
their head, after solemn and repeated argument; and 
that six to five of the judges only determined that the 
stringent words " and no longer" in the statute of Anne 
took that right away. And even this I do not call in aid 
so much by way of legal authority, as evidence of the feel- 
ing of those men (mighty though few) to whom our infant 
literature was confided by Providence, and of those who 
were in early time able to estimate the labour which we 
inherit. On the second point I will say nothing ; unable, 
indeed, to understand why that which springs wholly 
from within, and contracts no other right by its usurpa- 
tion, is to be regarded as baseless, because, by the condi- 
tion of its very enjoyment, it not only enlarges the source 
of happiness to readers, but becomes the means of mecha- 
nical employment to printers, and of speculation to pub- 
lishers. I am content to adopt the intermediate course, 
and to argue that question, whether a fair medium between 
two extremes has been chosen. What is to be said in 
favour of the line now drawn, except that it exists and 
bears an antiquity commencing in 1814? Is there any 
magic in the term of 28 years ? Is there any conceivable 



principle of justice which bounds the right, if the author 
survives that term, by the limit of his natural life ? As 
far as expediency shall prevail — as far as the welfare of 
those for whom it is the duty and the wish of the dying 
author to provide, may be regarded by parliament ; the 
period of his death is precisely that w T hen they will most 
need the worldly comforts which the property in his work 
would confer. And, as far as analogy may govern, the 
very attribute which induces us to regard with pride the 
works of intellect is, that thev survive the mortal course 
of those who framed them — that they are akin to what is 
deathless. Why should that quality render them worth- 
less to those in whose affectionate remembrance their 
author still lives, while they attest a nobler immortality ? 
Indeed, among the opponents of this measure, it is ground 
of cavil that it is proposed to take the death of the author 
as a starting point for the period w 7 hich it adds to the pre- 
sent term. It is urged as absurd that even the extent of 
this distant period should be affected by the accident of 
death ; and yet those who thus argue are content to support 
the system which makes that accident the final boundary 
at which the living efficacy of authorship, for the ad- 
vantage of its professors, ceases. 

I perfectly agree with the publishers in the evidence 
given in 1818, and the statements which have been re- 
peated more recently — that the extension of time will 
be a benefit only in one case in five hundred of works 
now issuing from the press ; and I agree with them that 
we are legislating for that five hundredth case. Why 
not ? It is the great prize which, out of the five hundred 



10 

risks, genius and goodness win. It is the benefit that 
can only be achieved by that which has stood the test of 
time — of that which is essentially true and pure — of that 
which has survived spleen, criticism, envy, and the chang- 
ing fashions of the world. Granted that only one author 
in five hundred attain this end ; does it not invite many 
to attempt it, and impress on literature itself a visible 
mark of permanence and of dignity ? The writers who 
attain it will necessarily belong to two classes — one class 
consisting of authors who have laboured to create the 
taste which should appreciate and reward them, and only 
attain that reputation which brings with it a pecuniary 
recompense just as the term for which that reward is held 
out to them wanes. Is it unjust in this case, which is 
that of Wordsworth, now in the evening of life, and in 
the dawn of his fame, to allow the author to share in the 
remuneration society tardily awards him ? The other class 
are those who, like Sir Walter Scott, have combined the 
art of ministering to immediate delight with that of out- 
lasting successive races of imitators and apparent rivals ; 
who do receive a large actual amount of recompense, but 
whose accumulating compensation is stopped when it 
most should increase. Now, surely, as to them, the 
question is not what remuneration is sufficient in the 
judgment of the legislature to repay for certain benefac- 
tions to society, but whether, having won the splendid 
reward, our laws shall permit the winner to enjoy it? 
We cannot decide the abstract question between genius 
and money, because there exist no common properties 
by which they can be tested, if we were dispensing an 



u 

arbitrary reward ; but the question how much the 
author ought to receive is easily answered — so much 
as his readers are delighted to pay him. When we say 
that he has obtained immense wealth by his writings, 
what do we assert, but that he has multiplied the sources 
of enjoyment to countless readers, and lightened thou- 
sands of else sad, or weary, or dissolute hours ? The two 
propositions are identical ; the proof of the one at once 
establishing the other. Why, then, should we grudge it, 
any more than we would reckon against the soldier, not 
the pension or the grant, but the very prize-money which 
attests the splendour of his victories, and in the amount 
of his gains proves the extent of ours ? Complaints have 
been made by one in the foremost rank in the opposition 
to this bill, the pioneer of the noble army of publishers, 
booksellers, printers, and bookbinders, who are arrayed 
against it — that in selecting the case of Sir Walter Scott 
as an instance in which the extension of copyright would 
be just, I had been singularly unfortunate, because that 
great writer received, during the period of subsisting copy- 
right, an unprecedented revenue from the immediate sale 
of his works. But, sir, the question is not one of reward 
— it is one of justice. How would this gentleman 
approve of the application of a similar rule to his own 
honest gains ? From small beginnings this very publisher 
has, in the fair and honourable course of trade, I doubt 
not, acquired a splendid fortune, amassed by the sale of 
works, the property of the public — of works, whose authors 
have gone to their repose, from the fevers, the disappoint- 
ments, and the jealousies which await a life of literary toil. 



12 

Who grudges it to hirn ? Who doubts his title to retain 
it ? And yet this gentleman's fortune is all, every far- 
thing of it, so much taken from the public, in the sense 
of the publisher's argument ; it is all profit on books 
bought by that public, the accumulation of pence, which, 
if he had sold his books without profit, would have re- 
mained in the pockets of the buyers. On what principle 
is Mr. Tegg to retain what is denied to Sir Walter ? Is 
it the claim of superior merit ? Is it greater toil ? Is it 
larger public service ? His course, I doubt not, has been 
that of an honest, laborious tradesman ; but what have been 
its anxieties, compared to the stupendous labour, the 
sharp agonies of him, whose deadly alliance with those 
very trades whose members oppose me now, and whose 
noble resolution to combine the severest integrity with 
the loftiest genius, brought him to a premature grave — a 
grave which, by the operation of the law, extends its 
chillness even to the result of those labours, and despoils 
them of the living efficacy to assist those whom he has 
left to mourn him ? Let any man contemplate that he- 
roic struggle of which the affecting record has just been 
completed ; and turn from the sad spectacle of one who 
had once rejoiced in the rapid creation of a thousand cha- 
racters glowing from his brain, and stamped with indivi- 
duality for ever, straining the fibres of the mind till the 
exercise which was delight became torture — girding him- 
self to the mighty task of achieving his deliverance from 
the load which pressed upon him, and with brave endeavour, 
but relaxing strength, returning to the toil till his faculties 
give way, the pen falls from his hand on the unmarked 



13 

paper, and the silent tears of half-conscious imbecility fall 
upon it — and to some prosperous bookseller in his country 
house, calculating the approach of the time (too swiftly 
accelerated) when he should be able to publish for his own 
gain, those works, fatal to life, and then tell me, if we are 
to apportion the reward to the effort, where is the justice 
of the bookseller's claim ? Had Sir Walter Scott been 
able to see, in the distance, an extension of his own right 
in his own productions, his estate and his heart had been 
set free, and the publishers and printers, who are our 
opponents now, would have been grateful to him for a 
continuation of labour and rewards which would have im- 
pelled and augmented their own. 

These two classes comprise, of necessity, all the in- 
stances in which the proposed change would operate at 
all ; the first, that of those whose copyright only becomes 
valuable just as it is about to expire ; the last, that of 
those whose works which, at once popular and lasting, 
have probably, in the season of their first success, en- 
riched the publisher far more than the author. It 
will not be denied that it is desirable to extend the be- 
nefit to both classes, if it can be done without injury to 
the public, or to subsisting individual interests. The 
suggested injury to the public is, that the price of books 
would be greatly enhanced ; and on this assumption the 
printers and bookbinders have been induced to sustain 
the publishers in resisting a change which is represented 
as tending to paralyse speculation — to cause fewer books 
to be written, printed, bound, and bought — to deprive 
the honest workmen of their subsistence, and the people of 



14 

the opportunity of enjoying the productions of genius. 
Even if such consequences were to be dreaded, if justice 
required the sacrifice, it ought to be made. The commu- 
nity have no right to be enriched at the expense of indi- 
viduals, nor is the liberty of the press (magic words which 
I have heard strangely blended in the din of this contro- 
versy) the liberty to smuggle and to steal. Still, if to 
these respectable petitioners, men often of intelligence 
and refinement beyond their sphere, which they have 
acquired from their mechanical association with literature, 
I could think the measure fraught with such mischiefs, I 
should regard it with distrust and alarm. But never, 
surely, were the apprehensions of intelligent men so 
utterly baseless. In the first place, I believe that the ex- 
istence of the copyright, even of that five-hundredth case, 
would not enhance the price of the fortunate work ; for 
the author or the bookseller, who enjoys the monopoly, as 
it is called, is enabled to supply the article at a much 
•cheaper rate when a single press is required to print all 
the copies offered for sale, instead of the presses and 
% establishments of competing publishers ; and I believe a 
comparison between the editions of standard works in 
which there is copyright, with those in which there is 
none, would confirm the truth of the inference. To cite, 
as an instance to the contrary, " Clarendon's History of 
the Rebellion," is to confess that a fair test would disprove 
the objection ; for what analogy is there between the 
motives and the acts of a great body, having no personal 
stimulus or interest, except to retain what is an ornament 
to their own power, and those of a number of individual 



15 

proprietors ; or between a state of things in which the 
instance stands alone, and one in which all authors would 
be instigated to publish;, and all readers — the class for 
whom the works would be published, or from whom 
they would be withheld ? But, after all, it is only in 
this five-hundredth case — the one rare prize in this huge 
lottery — that even this effect is to be dreaded. Now, 
this effect is the possible enhancing the price of the five- 
hundredth or five-thousandth book, and this is actually 
supposed " to be a heavy blow and great discouragement 
to literature," enough to paralyse the energies of pub- 
lishers, and to make Paternoster-row a desert ! Let it 
only be announced, say our opponents, that an author, 
whose works may outlast twenty-eight years, shall be- 
queath to his children the right which he enjoyed, that 
possibly some sixpence a volume may be added to its price 
in such an event, and all the machinery of printing and 
publication will come to a pause ! Why, sir, the same 
apprehension was entertained in 1813, when the publish- 
ers sought to obtain the extension of copyright for their 
own advantage to twenty-eight years. The printers then 
dreaded the effect of the prolonged monopoly : they peti- 
tioned against the bill, and they succeeded in delaying it 
for a session. And surely they had then far greater plau- 
sibility in their terrors ; for in proportion as the period at 
which the contemplated extension begins is distant, its 
effects must be indistinct and feeble. Fewer books, of 
course, will survive twenty-eight years than fourteen; 
the act of 1814 operated on the greater number if at all ; 
and has experience justified the fears which the publishers 



16 

then laughed to scorn ? Has the number of books dimin- 
ished since then ? Has the price of books been enhanced ? 
Has the demand for the labour of printers or bookbinders 
slackened since then ? Have the profits of the bookseller 
failed ? I need no committee of inquiry to answer these 
questions, and they are really decisive of the issue. We 
all know that books have multiplied ; that the quartos, in 
which the works of high pretension were first enshrined, 
has vanished ; and, while the prices paid for copyrights 
have been far higher than in any former time, the pro- 
prietors of these copyrights have found it more profitable 
to publish in a cheap than in a costly form. Will 
authors, or the children of authors, be more obstinate — 
less able to appreciate and to meet the demands of the age — 
more apprehensive of too large a circulation — when both 
will be impelled by other motives than those of interest to 
seek the largest sale ; the first by the impulse of blameless 
vanity or love of fame ; the last by the affection and the 
pride with which they must regard the living thoughts 
of a parent taken from this world, finding their way 
through every variety of life, and cherished by unnum- 
bered minds, which will bless his memory ? 

If, sir, I were called to state in a sentence the most power- 
ful argument against the objection raised to the extension of 
copyright on the part of the public, I would answer,—" The 
opposition of the publishers." If they have ground to com- 
plain of loss, the public can have none. The objection sup- 
poses that the works would be sold at something more than 
the price of the materials, the workmanship, and a fair profit 
on the outlay, if the copyright be continued to the author, 



17 
and, of course, also supposes that works of which the copy- 
rights have expired are sold without profit beyond those 
charges — that, in fact, the author's superadded gain will 
be the measure of the public loss. Where, then, does the 
publisher intervene ? Is the truth this— that the usage 
of the publishing trade at this moment indefinitely pro- 
longs the monopoly by a mutual understanding of its 
members, and that besides the term of twenty-eight years, 
which the publisher has bought and paid for, he has some- 
thing more? Is it a conventional copyright that is in 
danger? Is the real question whether the author shall 
hereafter have the full term to dispose of, or shall sell a 
smaller term, and really assign a greater ? Now, either the 
publishers have no interest in the main question, or this is 
that interest. If this is that interest, how will the public 
lose by paying their extra sixpence to the author who 
created the work, instead of the gentleman who prints his 
name at the foot of the title-page, and who will still take 
his 25 per cent, on the copies he may sell ? This argument 
applies, and, I apprehend, conclusively, to the main 
question — the justice and expediency of extending the 
term. I am aware that there is another ground of com- 
plaint more plausible, which does not apply to the main 
question, but to what is called the retrospective clause — a 
complaint, that in cases where the extended term will 
revert to the family of the author, instead of excluding, 
by virtue of an implied compact, all the rest of the world, 
they, like all the rest of the world, will be excluded ; that 
they had a right to calculate on this liberty in common 
with others when they made this bargain ; and that, there- 



18 

fore, it is a violation of faith to deprive them of their share 
of the common benefit. That there is any violation of 
faith I utterly deny — they still have all they have paid 
for ; and when, indeed, they assert (which they do when 
they argue that the measure will confer no benefit on 
authors) they would not give an author any more for a 
copyright of sixty than of twenty-eight years, they them- 
selves refute the charge of breach of faith, by showing that 
they do not reckon such distant contingencies in the price 
which they pay. If any inconvenience should arise, I 
should rejoice to consider how it can be obviated ; and 
with that view I introduced those clauses which have been 
the subject of much censure, empowering the assignee to 
dispose of all copies on hand at the close of his term, and 
allowing the proprietors of stereotype plates still to use 
them. But supposing some inconvenience to attend this 
act of justice to authors, which I should greatly regret, 
still are the publishers entirely without consolation ? In 
the first place, they would, as the bill now stands, gain all 
the benefit of the extension of Jftture copyrights, hereafter 
sold absolutely to them by the author, and, according to 
their own statement, without any advance of price. If 
this benefit is small — is contingent — is nothing in 500 
cases to one, so is the loss in those cases in which the 
right will result to the author. But it should further be 
recollected that every year, as copyrights expire, adds to 
the store from which they may take freely. In the 
infancy of literature a publisher's stock is scanty unless 
he pays for original composition ; but as one generation 
after another passes away, higtorie^ novels, poems — all of 



19 

undying interest and certain sale — fall in ; and each gene- 
ration of booksellers becomes enriched by the spoils of 
time, to which he has contributed nothing. If, then, in a 
measure which restores to the author what the bookseller 
has conventionally received, some inconvenience beyond 
the just loss of what he was never entitled to obtain be 
incurred, is not the balance greatly in his favour ? And 
can it be doubted that, in any case where the properties of 
the publisher and of the author's representatives are 
imperfect apart, either from additions to the original, or 
from the succession of several works falling in at dif- 
ferent times, their common interest would unite them ? 

One of the arguments used, whether on behalf of the 
trade or the public I scarcely know, against the extension 
of the term, is derived from a supposed analogy between 
the works of an author and the discoveries of an inventor, 
whence it is inferred that the term which suffices for 
the protection of the one is long enough for the recom- 
pense of the other. It remains to be proved that the 
protection granted to patentees is sufficient ; but sup- 
posing it to be so, although there are points of similarity 
between the cases, there are grounds of essential and oja^us 
distinction. In cases of patent, the merits of the invention 
are palpable, the demand is usually immediate, and the 
recompense of the inventor, in proportion to the utility 
of his work, speedy and certain. In cases of patent, the 
subject is generally one to which many minds are at once 
applied ; the invention is often no more than a step in a 
series of processes, the first of which being given, the con- 
sequence will almost certainly present itself sooner or later 



20 

to some of these inquirers, and if it were not hit on this 
year by one, would probably be discovered the next by 
another ; but who will suggest that if Shakspeare had not 
written " Lear," or Richardson " Clarissa," other poets or 
novelists would have invented them ? In practical science 
every discovery is a step to something more perfect ; and 
to give to the inventor of each a protracted monopoly 
would be to shut out all improvement by others. But 
who can improve the masterpieces of genius ? They 
stand perfect ; apart from all things else ; self-sustained ; 
the models for imitation ; the sources whence rules of art 
take their origin. And if we apply the analogy of me- 
chanical invention to literature, we shall find that in so 
far as it extends there is really in the latter no monopoly 
at all, however brief. For example, historical or critical 
research bears a close analogy to the process of mechanical 
discovery, and how does the law of copyright apply to 
the treasures it may reveal? The fact discovered, the 
truth ascertained, becomes at once the property of man- 
kind — to accept, to state, to reason on ; and all that 
remains in the author, is the style in which it is expressed. 
No one ever dreamed that to assume a position which 
another had discovered ; to reject what another had proved 
to be fallacious ; to stand on the table-land of recognised 
truth, and start from it anew ; was an invasion of the 
author's right. How earnest has been the thought, how 
severe the intellectual toil, by which the noblest speculations 
in regard to the human mind and its destiny have been 
conducted ! They are the beatings of the soul against the 
bars of its clay tenement, which, if ruffled in the collision, 



21 

attest at once, by their strength and their failure, that it 
is destined to move in a wider sphere. And yet the pro- 
ducts of divine philosophy melt away into the intellectual 
atmosphere which they enrich, and become the dreams and 
the assurances of others ! So that the law of literary pro- 
perty of necessity accommodates itself to the nature of its 
subject— when the work is properly a creation, leaving it 
preserved in its entirety — when it is mere discovery, ren- 
dering the essence of truth to mankind, and preserving 
nothing to its author but the form in which it is enshrined. 
It has, sir, been asserted that authors themselves 
have little interest in this question, and that they are, in 
fact, indifferent or hostile to the measure. True it is, 
that the greatest living writers have not thought it befit- 
ting the dignity of their cause to appear as petitioners for 
it, as a personal boon ; but I believe there are few who do 
not feel the honour of literature embarked in the cause, 
and earnestly desire its success. Mr. Wordsworth, emerg- 
ing for a moment from the seclusion he has courted, has 
publicly declared his conviction of its justice. Mr. Lock- 
hart has stated his apprehension that the complete 
emancipation of the estate of Sir Walter Scott from 
its incumbrances depends on the issue ; and, although 
I agree that we ought not to legislate for these cases, 
I contend that we ought to legislate by the light of 
their examples. While I admit that I should rejoice if 
the immediate effect of this measure were to cheer the 
evening of a great poet's life, to whom I am under intel- 
lectual obligation beyond all price, and to enlarge the re- 
wards of other living authors whose fame will endure, I 
do not ask support to this measure on their behalf ; but I 



22 

present these as the proofs of the subsisting wrong. The 
instances pass away ; successive generations do successive 
injustice ; but the principle is eternal. True it is that in 
many instances, if the boon be granted, the errors and 
frailties which often attend genius may render it vain ; 
true it is that in multitudes of cases it will not operate, 
but we shall have given to authors and to readers a great 
lesson of justice ; we shall have shown that where virtue 
and genius combine we are ready to protect their noble 
offspring, and that we do not desire a miserable advantage 
at the cost of the ornaments and benefactors of the world. 
I call on each party in this house to unite in rendering 
this tribute to the minds by which even party associations 
are dignified ; on those who anticipate successive changes 
in society, to acknowledge their debt to those who expand 
the vista of the future, and people it with goodly visions ; 
on those who fondly linger on the past, and repose on 
time-hallowed institutions, to consider how much that is 
ennobling in their creed has been drawn from minds which 
have clothed the usages and forms of other days with the 
symbols of venerableness and beauty ; on all, if they 
cannot find some common ground on which they may 
unite in drawing assurance of progressive good for the 
future from the glories of the past, to recognise their 
obligation to those, the products of whose intellect shall 
grace and soften and dignify the struggle. With those 
feelings, I move that this bill be now read a second time. 



LONDON : 
BHADBUICY AND EVANS, I'HINTERS, « II! I BFR1AIIS. 



3Just $trf)lisl)efc. 



Price 4s. sd., 

THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE 

8 Cragrtfi). 

By MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD, M.P, 



ii« 

Price 4s., 

ION: A TRAGEDY. 

By MR. SERGEANT TALFOURD, M.P. 
FOURTH EDITION. 

TO WHICH ARK ADDED, SONNETS, AND A NEW PREFACE. 



III. 

EN ONE VOLUME, 

Illustrated "by a Portrait and Vignette, 
Price 20s. cloth, 

THE 

DRAMATIC WORKS OF WILLIAM 
SHAKSPEARE. 

WITH A LIFE, BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq, 



In ti)0 $m». 

4 ■ 

in one volume, 
uniform with the " curiosities of literature," 

THE 

DRAMATIC WORKS OF BEAUMONT 
AND FLETCHER. 



IN ONE VOLUME, 



AS A COMPANION TO THE ABOVE, 



WORKS OF BEN JONSON. 



THE 



ATHENIAN CAPTIVE 



THE 



3 

ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 



A TRAGEDY. 



IN FIVE ACTS. 



THOMAS NOON TALFOURI). 

AUTHOR OF " ION," &C. 



F1K.ST ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE, APRIL 28, 1838. 



LONDON : 
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 

MDCCCXXXVIII. 



465 



BRADBURY AND EVANS, 

PRINTERS-EXTRAORDINARY TO THE QUEEN, 

WHITEFRIARS. 



TO 

THE RIGHT HON. THOMAS LORD DENMAN, 

LORD CHIEF JUSTICE OF HER MAJESTY'S COURT OF QUEEN'S BENCH, 
IN TESTIMONY OF DEEP ADMIRATION 

OF THOSE QUALITIES WHICH WERE THE GRACE AND DELIGHT 
OF THE BAR, 

AND WHICH HAPPILY ADORN THE BENCH ; 
AND IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF MANY CHEERING KINDNESSES; 

IS, WITH HIS PERMISSION, 

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 
BY 

THE AUTHOR, 



PREFACE. 



The existence of the following scenes is entirely to be 
attributed to the earnest desire which I felt, to assist, even 
in the slightest degree, the endeavour which Mr. Macready 
has made this season in the cause of the acted Drama. 
More than contented with the unhoped for association I had 
obtained with the living influences of scenic representation, 
in the indulgence accorded to " Ion," I should have post- 
poned all thought of again venturing before the public, 
until years had brought leisure, which might enable me to 
supply, by labour and by care, what I knew to be wanting 
in the higher requisites of tragic style. But I could not 
perceive a gentleman, whose friendship I had long enjoyed, 
forsaking the certain rewards of his art, and the tranquil 
pleasures of domestic life, to engage in the chivalrous 



viii PREFACE. 

endeavour to support a cause, which I believe to be that of 
humanity and of goodness, and which seemed almost des- 
perate, without a feverish anxiety to render him assistance, 
and perhaps a tendency to mistake the will for the power. 
The position of the two great theatres — with a legal 
monopoly, which has been frittered away piecemeal without 
recompense, until nothing remains but the debts which 
were contracted on the faith of its continuance, and the odium 
of its name ; — opposed to a competition with numerous 
establishments, dividing the dramatic talent and dissipating 
the dramatic interest of the town, — rendered the determi- 
nation of Mr. Macready to risk his property, his. time, and 
his energies in the management of one of them, a subject 
of an interest almost painful. Impressed with this senti- 
ment, at a time when it was unforeseen that one of the most 
distinguished of our authors would lend his aid — when no 
tragic creation of Knowles " cast its shadow before," with 
its assurance of power and of beauty, — when the noble 
revivals of Lear and of Coriolanus were only to be guessed 
at from those of Hamlet and Macbeth, — I determined to 
make an attempt, marked, I fear, with more zeal than 



PREFACE. ix 

wisdom. Having submitted the outline of this Drama to 
the friend and artist most interested in the result, and having 
received his encouragement to proceed, I devoted my little 
vacation of Christmas to its composition ;— and, with the 
exception of some alterations (for the suggestion of the 
principal of which I am indebted to him,) succeeded so far 
as to finish it before the renewal of other (1 can hardly say) 
severer labours. Whether I may succeed in doing more 
than thus gratifying my own feelings, and testifying their 
strength by the effort, is, at this time, doubtful ; — but, in 
no event, shall I regret having made it. 

At this period I can only, of course, imperfectly estimate 
the extent of the obligation I shall owe to the performers ; 
but, as no other opportunity may occur, I cannot refrain 
from thanking them for the zeal and cordiality with which 
they have thus far supported me. Among them I am 
happy to find my old and constant friend, Mr. Serle, — who 
should rather be engaged in embodying his own con- 
ceptions than in lending strength to mine. And I cannot 
refrain from mentioning the sacrifice made to the common 



x PREFACE. 

cause by Miss Helen Faucit, in consenting to perform 
a character far beneath the sphere in which she is entitled 
to move; and which, even when elevated and graced by 
her, will, I fear, be chiefly noted for her good-nature in 
accepting it. 

The First Scene of the Third Act, and the Second 
Scene of the Fourth Act, are omitted in the representation ; 
and some alterations, suggested at rehearsal, have been 
made in the conduct of the closing Scene. 

T. N. T. 

Russell Square, 28th April, 1838. 



persons of tfie Crania, 



AS REPRESENTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. 



Creon . . King of Corinth Mb. Warde. 

Hyllus . Son of Creon Mr. Anderson. 

Iphitus . Priest of the Temple of Jupiter the 1 

* . n • .1. r M R « Serle. 
Avenger, at Corinth .... J 

Calchas . An Athenian, living at Corinth . . Mr. Waldron. 

Thoas . An Athenian Warrior Mr. Macready. 

Pentheus An Athenian Warrior, his Friend . Mr. Diddear. 

Lycus . . Master of the Slaves to the King of) M tt 

„ . . > Mr. Howe. 

Corinth J 

Athenian and Corinthian Soldiers, fyc. 

Ismene . Queen of Corinth ; second wife of "| 

J1Y1 US* WARNER* 



Creusa . Daughter of Creon ; twin-born of 
his first wife with Hyllus . ■ 



> Miss Helen Fau< 



Scene — Corinth, and its immediate neighbourhood. 
Time of Action — Two days. 



THE 



ATHENIAN CAPTIVE, 

A TRAGEDY. 



ACT I. 
SCENE I. 



The Acropolis of Corinth. 

Creon reclining on a bench, beneath open columns. — 
Iphitus a little behind him, in the dress of Augury, 
watching the flight of birds. The Sea seen far below , 
in the distance. 

IPHITUS. 

Wheel through the ambient air, ye sacred birds, 

In circles still contracting, that aspire 

To share the radiance of yon dazzling beams, 

And 'midst them float from mortal gaze ; ye speak 

In no uncertain language to the sons 

Of Corinth, that the shames they bear from Athens 

Shall speedily be lost in glories won 

B 



2 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

From insolent battalions, that have borne 
Their triumphs to our gates. Rejoice, my king ! 
Leave mournful contemplation of the dust, 
To hail the omen ! 

CREON. 

I am so perplex'd 
With the faint tracings age's weakness shapes, 
That I distinguish not the winged forms 
Thou speakest of, from the mists that flicker quick 
On eyes which soon must be all dark. To me 
No omen can be otherwise than sad ! 

1PH1TCJS. 

Surely, my king — for I will answer thee 

Untrembling, as Jove^ minister — these signs 

Should make thy heart beat proudly ; hast not felt 

Upon our loftiest eminence, the blight 

Of that dishonour which alone can slay 

The spirit of a people ;— seen our fanes 

Crowded with suppliants from our wasted fields, 

Shrieking for help in vain, and mourn 'd the power 

Of Athens to convert our cloudless sky, 

And the bright sea which circles us, to bounds 

Of a great prison ? If thy kingly soul 

Hath shrunk — as well I know it hath — from shame 

Without example in our story, now 

Bid it expand, as our beleaguer'd gates 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

Shall open wide to let our heroes pass, 

With brows which glisten to receive the laurel 

From their king's hand. 

CREON. 

Perchance to see him die. 
O, Iphitus ! thy king hath well nigh spent 
His store of wealth, of glory, and of power, 
Which made him master of the hopes and strengths 
Of others ! While the haggard Fury waits 
To cut the knot which binds his thousand threads 
Of lustrous life, and the sad ghost forsakes 
The palace of its regal clay, to shrink, 
Thin as a beggar's, sceptreless, uncrown'd, 
Unheeded, to the throng'd and silent shore 
Where flattery soothes not, think'st thou it can draw 
A parting comfort from surrounding looks 
Of lusty youth, prepaid, with beaming joy, 
To hail a young successor ? 

IPHITUS. 

Still thine age 
Is green and hopeful ; there is nought about thee 
To speak of mortal sickness, and unnerve 
A soul that once was noble. 

CIIEON. 

Priest, forbear ! 
The life that lingers in me is the witness 

B 2 



4 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

With which I may not palter. I may seem 

To-day to wear the look of yesterday, — 

A shrivell'd, doting, peevish, weak old man, 

Who may endure some winters more to strip 

A leaflet daily from him, till he stands 

So bare of happiness, that Death hath scarce 

An art to make him nakeder. My soul 

Begins its solemn whispers of adieu 

To earth's too sweet companionship. Yet, hark ! 

It is Creusa's footstep ; is't not, priest ? 

Is not my child approaching us ? 

IPHITUS. 

Afar 
I see the snowy foldings of a robe 
Wave through the column'd avenue ; thy sense 
Is finer than the impatient ear of youth, 
That it should catch the music of a step 
So distant and so gentle. 

CREON. 

If thou wert 
A father, thou wouldst know a father's love 
'Mid nature's weakness, for one failing sense 
Still finds another sharpen'd to attend 
Its finest ministries. Unlike the pomps 
That make the dregs of life more bitter, this 
Can sweeten even a king's. 

[Creusa f> asses across the stage behind Creon, bearing 

offerings."} 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

She passes on ; 
So ! So ! all leave me. Call her, Iphitus, 
Though that her duty own no touch of fondness, 
I will command her. Am I not her king ? 
Why dost not call ? 

Re-enter C re us a, who kneels in front to Creon. 

Ah ! thou art there, my child ; 
Methinks my waning sight grows clear, to drink 
The perfect picture of thy beauty in ; 
And I grow gentle — Ah ! too gentle, girl — 
Wherefore didst pass me by without regard, 
Who have scant blessing left save thus to gaze 
And listen to thee ? 

CREUSA. 

Pardon me, my father, 
If, bearing offerings to the shrine of Jove 
For my sweet brother's safety, anxious thoughts 
Clove to him in the battle with a force 
Which made its strangest shapes of horror live 
As present things ; and, lost in their pursuit, 
I heeded not my father. 

CREON. 

In the battle? 
Is Hyllus in the combat 'mid those ranks 
Of iron ? He who hath not rounded yet 



6 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

His course of generous exercise ? I'm weak ; 
Is that the cause ? Is he impatient grown 
To put the royal armour on, his sire 
Must never wear again ? Oh, no ! his youth, 
In its obedient gentleness, hath been 
An infancy prolong'd ! It is the Power 
Which strikes me with the portents of the grave, 
That by the sight of his ensanguined corpse 
Would hasten their fulfilment ; 'tis well aim'd, 
I shall fall cold before it. 

CREUSA. 

'Twas a word, 
Dropp'd by the queen in answer to some speech 
In which she fancied slight to Athens, rous'd 
His spirit to an ecstasy ; he spurn'd 
The light accoutrements of mimic war ; 
Borrow'd a soldier's sword, and, with the troops 
Who sallied forth at day-break, sought the field — 
Where Jupiter protect him ! 

CREON. 

Bid the queen 
Here answer to us. [Exit Iphitus. 

Rarely will she speak, 
And calmly, yet her sad and solemn words 
Have power to thrill and madden. O my girl, 
Had not my wayward fancy been enthralPd 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

By that Athenian loveliness which shone 

From basest vestments, in a form whose grace 

Made the cold beauty of Olympus earth's, 

And drew me to be traitor to the urn 

Which holds thy mother's ashes, I had spent 

My age in sweet renewal of my youth 

With thought of her who gladden'd it, nor known 

The vain endeavour to enforce regard 

From one whose heart is dead amidst the living. 

Re-enter Iphitus. 

CREON. 

Comes the queen hither ? Does she mock our bidding ? 

IPHITUS. 

At stern Minerva's inmost shrine she kneels, 

And with an arm as rigid and as pale 

As is the giant statue, clasps the foot 

That seems as it would spurn her, yet were stay'd 

By the firm suppliant's will. She looks attent 

As one who caught some hint of distant sounds, 

Yet none from living intercourse of man 

Can pierce that marble solitude. Her face 

Uprais'd, is motionless, — yet while I mark'd it — 

As from its fathomless abode a spring 

Breaks on the bosom of a sullen lake 

And in an instant grows as still, — a hue 

Of blackness trembled o'er it ; her large eye 



8 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

Kindled with frightful lustre; — but the shade 
Pass'd instant thence ; her face resumM its look 
Of stone, as death-like as the aspect pure 
Of the great face divine to which it answered. 
I durst not speak to her. 

CREON. 

I see it plain ; 
Her thoughts are with our foes, the blood of Athens 
Mantles or freezes in her alien veins ; 
Let her alone. [Shouts without. 

CREUSA. 

Hark ! — They would never shout 
If Hyllus were in peril. 

CREON. 

Were he slain 
In dashing back the dusky wall of shields, 
Beneath which Athens masks her pride of war, 
They would exult and mock the slaughter'd boy 
With Paeans. 

CREUSA. 

So my brother would have chosen ! 

[Shouts renewed. 

Enter Corinthian Soldier. 

SOLDIER. 

Our foes are driven to their tents, the field 
Is ours — 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 9 

CREON. [Hastily interrupting him. 

What of the prince — my son ? 
Thou dost avoid his name ; — have ye achiev'd 
This noisy triumph with his blood ? 

SOLDIER. 

A wound, 
Slight, as we hope, hath grac'd his early valour, 
And though it draws some colour from his cheek 
Leaves the heart fearless. 

CREON. 

I will well avenge] 
The faintest breath of sorrow which hath dimm'd 
The mirror of his youth. Will he not come? 
Why does he linger, if his wound is slight, 
From the fond arms of him who will avenge it ? 

SOLDIER. 

He comes, my lord. 

CREON. 

Make way, there ! Let me clasp him ! 

Enter Hyllus, pale, as slightly wounded. 

Why does he not embrace me ? 

[Creusa runs to Hyllus, and supports him as he moves 
towards Creon. 



JO THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

CREUSA. 

He is faint, 
Exhausted, breathless, — bleeding. Lean on me, 

[To Hyllus. 
And let me lead thee to the king, who pants 
To bid his youngest soldier welcome. 

HYLLUS. 

Nay 
"Tis nothing. Silly trembler ! — See, my limbs 
Are pliant and my sinews docile still. [Kneels to Ckeon. 
Kneel with me; pray our father to forgive 
The disobedience of his truant son, 
His first — oh, may it prove the last ! 

[Creusa kneels with Hyllus to Creon. 

CREON. 

My son ! 
Who fancied I was angry? 

Enter Ismene. 

(To Ismene.) Art thou come, 

To gaze upon the perill'd youth who owes 
His wound to thee ? 

ISMENE. 

He utter'd shallow scorn 
Of Athens ; — which he ne'er will speak again. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 11 

CREON. 
Wouldst dare to curb bis speech ? 

HYLLUS. 

Forbear, my father ; 
The queen says rightly. In that idle mood, 
Which youth's excess of happiness makes wanton, 
I slighted our illustrious foes, whose arms 
Have, with this mild correction, taught my tongue 
An apter phrase of modesty, and shewn 
What generous courage is, which till this day 
I dimly guess'd at. 

CREON. 

Canst thou tell his name, 
Who impious drew the blood of him who soon — 
Too soon, alas ! — shall reign in Corinth ? 

HYLLUS. 

One 
I'm proud to claim my master in great war ; 
With whom contesting, I have tasted first 
The joy which animates the glorious game 
Where fiercest opposition of brave hearts 
Makes them to feel their kindred ; — one who spar'd me 
To grace another fight, — the sudden smart 
His sword inflicted, made me vainly rush 
To grapple with him ; from his fearful grasp 



12 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

I sank to earth ; as I lay prone in dust, 

The broad steel shiv'ring in my eyes, that strove 

To keep their steady gaze, I met his glance, 

Where pity triumph'd ; quickly he returned 

His falchion to its sheath, and with a hand 

Frank and sustaining as a brother's palm, 

Uprais'd me ; — while he whispered in mine ear, 

" Thou hast dar'd well, young soldier," our hot troops 

Environ 'd him, and bore him from the plain 

Our army's noblest captive. 

CREON. 

He shall die ; 
The gen'rous falsehood of thy speech is vain. 

CREUSA. 

O no ! my brother's words were never false ; 
The heroic picture proves his truth ; — they bring 
A gallant prisoner towards us. Sure, 'tis he. 

Enter Thoas, in armour, guarded by Corinthian Soldiers, 
and Lycus, Master of the Slaves. 

SOLDIER. 

My lord, we bring the captive, whom we found 
In combat with the prince. 

HYLLUS. 

Say rather, found 
Raising that prince whose rashness he chastised, 
And taught how he should treat a noble foe. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 13 

creon. \_To the Soldiers. 

Answer to me ! Why have ye brought this man, 
Whom the just gods have yielded to atone 
For princely blood he shed, in pride of arms ? 
Remove that helmet. 

THOAS. 

He who stirs to touch 
My arms, shall feel a dying warrior's grasp. 
I will not doff my helmet till I yield 
My neck to your slave's butchery ; how soon 
That stroke may fall, I care not. 

CREUSA. [_To HYLLUS. 

Hyllus, speak ! 
Why thus transnVd ? Wilt thou not speak for him 
Who spar'd a life, which, light perchance to thee, 
Is the most precious thing to me on earth ? 

THOAS. [_To CREUSA. 

Ere I descend to that eternal gloom 
Which opens to enfold me, let me bless 
The vision that hath cross'd it ! 

hyllus. [_To Creon. 

If thou slay him, 
I will implore the mercy of the sword 
To end me too ; and, that sad grace withheld, 
Will kneel beside his corpse till nature give 
Her own dismissal to me. 



14 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

t s m e n e . Q Speaking slowly to C R E O N . 
Let him breathe 
A slave's ignoble life out here ; 'twill prove 
The sterner fortune. 

CREON. 

Hearken to me, prisoner! 
My boy hath won this choice — immediate death, 
Or life-long portion with my slaves. 

THOAS. 

Dost dare 
Insult a son of Athens by the doubt 
Thy words imply ? Wert thou in manhood's prime, 
Amidst thy trembling slaves would I avenge 
The foul suggestion, with the desperate strength 
Of fated valour ; but thou art in years, 
And I should blush to harm thee ; — let me die. 

CREUSA. 

O do not fling away thy noble life, 

For it is rich in treasures of its own, 

Which Fortune cannot touch, and vision 'd glories 

Shall stream around its bondage. 

THOAS. 

I have dream'd 
Indeed of greatness, lovely one, and felt 
The very dream worth living for, while hope, 
To make it real, surviv'd ; and I have lov'd 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 15 

To image thought, the mirror of great deeds, 
Fed by the past to might which should impel 
And vivify the future; — blending thus 
The aims and triumphs of a hero's life. 
But to cheat hopeless infamy with shows 
Of nobleness, and filch a feeble joy 
In the vain spasms of the slavish soul, 
Were foulest treachery to the god within me. 
No, lady ; from the fissure of a rock, 
Scath'd and alone, my brief existence gush'd, 
A passion 'd torrent ; — let it not be lost 
In miry sands, but having caught one gleam 
Of loveliness to grace it, dash from earth 
To darkness and to silence. Lead me forth — 
(To C reus a.) The Gods requite thee ! 

CREON. 

Hath the captive chosen ? 
I will not grant another moment ; — speak ! 
Wilt serve or perish ? 

HYLLUS. 

{Throwing himself before Thoas. 
Do not answer yet ! 
Grant him a few short minutes to decide, 
And let me spend them with him. 

creon. {Rising. 

Be it so, then ! 
Kneel, prisoner, to the prince who won thee grace 



lfi THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

No other mortal could have gainM : —remember 
The master of my slaves attends the word 
Thou presently slialt utter ; tame thy pride 
To own his government, or he must bind, 
And slay thee. Daughter, come ! The queen attends us. 

[Exeunt Creon and Soldiers. 

CREUSA. 

[To Hyllus, as she passes him. 
Thou wilt not leave him till he softens. 

[Ismene folloics ; as she passes T ho as, she speaks in a 
low and solemn tone. 



ISMENE. 



Live ! 



THOAS. 

Who gave that shameful counsel ? 

ismene. [Passing on. 

One of Athens. [Exit. 

[Exeunt all but Lycus, the Master of the Slaves, — 
Thoas and Hyllus. 

thoas. [Abstractedly. 

What words are these, which bid my wayward blood, 
That centred at my heart with icy firmness, 
Come tingling back through all my veins ? I seem 
Once more to drink Athenian ether in, 
And the fair city^s column'd glories flash 
Upon my soul ! 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 17 

LYCUS. 

My lord, I dare not wait. 

hyllus. {Eagerly to Lycus. 

He yields ; — I read it in his softening gaze ; 
It speaks of life. 

THOAS. 

Yes ; I will owe life to thee. 

HYLLUS. 

Thou hear'st him, Lycus. Let me know the name 
Of him whom I could deem my friend. 

THOAS. 

My name ! 
I have none worthy of thy ear ; I thought 
To arm a common sound with deathless power ; 
'Tis past ; thou only mark'st me from the crowd 
Of crawling earth-worms ; — thou may'st call me, Thoas. 

lycus. \_ Coming forward. 

My prince, forgive me; I must take his armour, 
And lead him hence. 

THOAS. 

Great Jupiter, look down ! 

HYLLUS. 

Thoas, thy faith is pledged. [To Lycus.] Stand back awhile, 
If thou hast nature. Thoas will to me 
Resign his arms. 

c 



IS 



THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 



t ho as. { Taking off his helmet . 

To a most noble hand 
I yield the glories of existence up, 
And bid them long adieu ! This plume, which now 
Hangs motionless, as if it felt the shame 
Its owner bears, wav'd in my boyish thoughts 
Ere I was free to wear it, as the sign, 
The dancing image of my bounding hopes, 
That imag'd it above a throng of battles, 
Waving where blows were fiercest. Take it hence — 
Companion of brave fancies, vanish'd now 
For ever, follow them ! 

[Hyllus takes the helmet from Thoas, and passes it to 
Lycus. 

HYLLUS. 

'Tis nobly done ; 
No doubt that it again shall clasp thy brow, 
And the plume wave in victory. Thy sword ? 
Forgive me ; I must filch it for awhile : 
Hide it— O deem it so— in idle sport, 
And keep thy chidings, till I give it back 
Again to smite and spare. 

thoas. 
Too generous youth, 
Permit my depth of sorrow to be calm, 
Unruffled by vain hope. {Takes of his sword. 

Farewell, old sword, 



sckne i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 19 

Thou wert the bright inheritance which grac'd 

My finish'd years of boyhood — all that time 

And fortune spar'd of those from whom I drew 

The thirst of greatness. In how proud an hour 

Did I first clasp thee with untrembling hand, 

Fit thee, with fond exactness, to my side, 

And in the quaint adornments of thy sheath 

Guess deeds of valour, acted in old time 

By some forgotten chief, whose generous blood 

I felt within my swelling veins ! Farewell ! 

[Thoas gives his sword to Hyllus, who delivers it to 
Lycus. 

hyllus. [Diffidently. 

Thy buckler? 

THOAS. 

[Takes off his buckler eagerly ', and delivers it to Hyllus. 
I rejoice to part with that ; 
My bosom needs no bulwark save its own, 
For I am only man now. If my heart 
Should in its throbbing burst, 'twill beat against 
An unapparell'd casing, and be still. \_ Going. 

hyllus. [Hesitatingly. 

Hold !— one thing more — thy girdle holds a knife ; 
I grieve that I must ask it. 

THOAS. 

By the sense 
Which 'mid delights I feel thou hast not lost, 

c 2 



20 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

Of what, in dread extremity, the brave, 
Stripp'd of all other refuge, would embrace, — 
I do adjure thee, — rob me not of this ! 

HYLLUS. 

Conceal it in thy vest. 

f Thoas hastily places his dagger in his bosom, 
and takes the hand of Hyllus. 

THOAS. 

We understand 
Each other's spirit ; — thou hast call'd me friend, 
And though in bonds, I answer to the name, 
And give it thee again. 

LYCUS (advancing). 

The time is spent 
Beyond the king's allowance : I must lead 
The captive to the court, where he may meet 
His fellows, find his station, and put on 
The habit he must wear. 

THOAS. 

Do I hear rightly ? 
Must an Athenian warrior's free-born limbs 
Be clad in withering symbols of the power 
By which man marks his property in flesh, 
Bones, sinews, feelings, lying Nature framed 
For human ? They shall rend me piecemeal first ! 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 21 

HYLLUS. 
Thoas— friend — comrade, — recollect thy word, 
Which now to break were worse disgrace than power 
Can fix upon thee, bids thee bear awhile 
This idle shame. I shall be proud to walk 
A listener at thy side, while generous thoughts 
And arts of valour, which may make them deeds, 
Enrich my youth. Soon shall we 'scape the court, 
Ply the small bark upon the summer sea, 
Gay careless voyagers, who leave the shore 
With all its vain distinctions, for a world 
Of dancing foam and light ; till eve invites 
To some tall cavern, where the sea- nymphs raise 
Sweet melodies ; there shalt thou play the prince, 
And I will put thy slavish vestments on, 
And yield thee duteous service; — in our sport 
Almost as potent as light Fortune is, 
Who in her wildest freaks but shifts the robe 
Of circumstance, and leaves the hearts it cloath'd 
Unchanged and free as ours. 

THOAS. 

I cannot speak. 
Come — or mine eyes will witness me a slave 
To my own frailty's masterdom. — Come on ! 

[To Lycus. 
Thou hast done thy office gently. Lead the way. {Exeunt. 

END OF ACT I. 



22 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
A Court in the Palace of Creon. 

Enter Creon and Lycus. 

CREON. 

How does the proud Athenian bear his part 
In servile duty ? 

LYCUS. 

I have never seen 
So brave a patience. The severest toils 
Look graceful in him, from the facile skill 
With which his strength subdues them. Few his words 
By question drawn, yet gentle as a child's ; 
And if, in pauses of his work, his eye 
Will glisten, and his bosom heave ; anon 
He starts as from a dream, submissive bows, 
And plies his work again. 

CREON. 

Thou dost espouse 
His cause. Beware! he hurPd defiance on me, 
Disdain'd my age, as if his pride of strength 
Made him in bondage greater than a king 
Sick and infirm as I am ; he shall feel 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 23 

What yet an old man can inflict. He comes ; 
Why does he leave his duty ? 

LYCUS. 

'Tis the hour 
Of rest — of food, if he would take it ; here 
He's privileged to walk. 

CREON. 

Lefs stand aside. 
[Creon and Lycus retire from sight. 

Enter Thoas, in the dress of a Slave. 

THOAS. 

Had I been born to greatness, or achieved 

My fame, methinks that I could smile at this ; 

Taste a remember' d sweetness in the thought 

Of pleasure snatch'd from fate ; or feed my soul 

With the high prospect of serene renown 

Beetling above this transitory shame 

In distant years. But to be wither'd thus — 

In the first budding of my fortune, doom'd 

To bear the death of hope, and to outlive it I 

Gods, keep me patient ! I will to my task. \_Going. 

Re-enter Creon and Lycus. 

LYCUS. 

Wilt thou not join thy fellows at the feast, 
And taste a cup of wine the king vouchsafes 
For merriment to-day ? 



24 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act n. 

THOAS. 
What ! are they merry ? 

LYCUS. 

Dost thou not hear them ? 

THOAS. 

They are slaves, indeed ! 
Forgive me, I would rather to the quarry. {Going. 

Enter Messenger. 
messenger {addressing Creon). 
My lord, the games in honour of our triumph 
Await thee, — first the chariot race, in which 
Thy son prepares to strive. The wrestlers next — 

creon. 
Let them begin. {Exit Messenger. 

Methinks yon captive's strength, 
No longer rebel, might afford us sport. 
Thoas ! 

THOAS. 

I wait thy pleasure. 

CREON. 

Thou wert train'd 
Doubtless, at home, to manly exercise, 
And I would have thee show the youth of Corinth 
How the Athenians throw the quoit and wrestle. 

THOAS. 

My lord, I cannot do it ! 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 25 

CREON. 

One so strong 
As thou, had he been native here, would joy 
In sports like these. 

THOAS. 

O, have I not enjoy'd them ! 
My lord, I am content to toil and mourn — 
'Tis the slave's part ; these limbs are thine to use 
In vilest service till their sinews fail ; 
But not a nerve shall bend in sports I lov'd 
When freeman to indulge in, for the gaze 
Of those who were my foes and are my masters. 

Enter Messenger y in haste. 

MESSENGER. 

My lord — the prince — 

THOAS. 

Is he in peril ? 

MESSENGER. 

As his chariot, far 
Before all rivals, glitter'd to the goal, 
The coursers plung'd as if some fearful thing 
Unseen by human eyes had glar'd on theirs ; 
Then with a speed like lightning flash 'd, along 
The verge of the dark precipice which girds 
The rock-supported plain, and round it still 



26 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 

In frightful circles whirl the youth ; no power 
Of man can stay them. 

THOAS. 

Friend, I come ! I come ! 

lycus. [Attempting to stop him. 
Thou must not go. 

THOAS. 

Away ! I'm master now. {Rushes out. 

CREON. 

My son ! my son ! I shall embrace thy corpse, 

And lie beside it. Yet I cannot bear 

This anguish ; dead or living, I will seek thee ! [Exit. 

LYCUS. {Looking out. 

How the slave spurns the dust ; with what a power 
He cleaves the wondering throng, — they hide him now, — 
Speed him, ye gods of Corinth ! 

Enter C reus a. 

CREUSA. 

Whence that cry 
Of horror mingled with my brother's name ? 
Is he in danger ? Wherefore dost thou stand 
Thus silently, and gaze on empty air ? 
Speak ! 

Enter Iphitus. QCreusa addressing him. 
From thy sacred lips the truth 
Must flow. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 27 

IPHITUS. 
Be calm ; thy brother is preserv'd ; 
Urg'd by his furious steeds, his chariot hung 
Scarce pois'd on the rock's margin, where the vale 
Lies deepest under it ; an instant more, 
And Hyllus, who serenely stood with eyes 
Fix'd on the heavens, had perish 'd ; when a form 
With god-like swiftness clove the astonished crowd ; 
Appear^ before the coursers, scarce upheld 
By tottering marl ;— strain'd forward o'er the gulf 
Of vacant ether ; caught the floating reins, 
And drew them into safety with a touch 
So fine, that sight scarce witness'd it. The prince 
Is in his father's arms. 

CREUSA. 

Thou dost not speak 
The hero's name ; — yet can I guess it well. 

IPHITUS. 

Thoas. — He comes. 

CREUSA. 

Let me have leave to thank him. 

[_Exeunt Iphitus and Lycus. 

Enter Thoas. 
Hero ! accept a maiden's fervent thanks, 
All that she has to offer, for a life 
Most precious to her. 



28 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 

THOAS. 

Speak not of it, fair one ! 
Life, in my estimate, *s too poor a boon 
To merit thanks so rich. 

CREUSA. 

Not such a life 
As his to me. We both together drew 
Our earliest breath, and one unconscious crime 
SharM ; for the hour that yielded us to day 
Snatch'd her who bore us. Thence attached we grew, 
As if some portion of that mother's love 
Each for the other cherish'd ; twin-born joys, 
Hopes, fancies, and affections, each hath watchM 
In the clear mirror of the other's soul, 
By that sweet union doubled. Thou hast sav'd 
Two lives in saving Hyllus. 

THOAS. 

'Tis not meet 
That such a wretch as I, in garb like this, 

\_Looking at his dress, and shuddering. 
Should listen to the speech of one so fair ; 
It will unfit me for my tasks. 

CREUSA. 

Thy tasks ? 
O hard injustice ! 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 29 

Enter Hyllus, Creusa meeting him. 

Brother, join thy thanks 
To mine. [Hyllus and Creusa embrace. 

THOAS. 

No more. [Retiring. 

Grant, ye immortal gods, 

So beautiful a bond be never broken ! 

{Exit Thoas. 

creusa. 

He speaks of tasks. My brother, can'st endure 

To see a hero who hath twice preserv'd 

Thy life — upon whose forehead virtue sits 

Enthroned in regal majesty — thus held 

In vilest thraldom ? 

HYLLUS. 

Ah ! my sweet Creusa, 
Thy words breathe more than gratitude. 

CREUSA. 

My brother, 
I pray thee, do not look into my face. 

HYLLUS. 

Nay, raise thy head, and let thine eye meet mine ; 
It reads no anger there. Thy love is pure 
And noble as thyself, and nobly plac'd : 
And one day shall be honorM. 



30 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 

CREUSA. 

Spare me ! 

HYLLUS. 

Come, 
The banquet hath begun ; the king expects us. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

Banqueting- Hall in Creon's Palace. 

Creon, Ismene, Iphitus, Calchas, and Corinthians, 
seated at the Banquet. 

creon. [Rising. 

I thank ye for my son ; — he is unharm'd, 
And soon will join our revelry. 

ismene. 

We lack 
Attendance. Where is Thoas ? It were fit 
In Corinttfs day of triumph, he should wait 
On his victorious enemies. Go seek him. 

[Exit an Attendant. 

CREON. 

I would have spar'd his services to-day ; 
He is but young in service, and hath done 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 31 

A glorious deed. Drink round, my friends, and pledge 
My son once more. 

ISMENE. 

My sovereign, I should deem 
So great a master in the skill to tame 
The nature struggling in a free-born soul, 
Would think it wisdom to begin betimes, 
When an Athenian spirit should be stifled. 
If thou would'st bend him to the yoke, "'twere best 
Commence to-day; — to-morrow 't may be vain. 

Enter Thoas. 
Athenian ! — slave ! — 'tis well that thou hast come ; 
Else might we fear thou didst not feel so proud 
As such a man as thou should feel, to wait 
Upon his victor. Carry round the cup, 
And bear it to the king, with duteous looks. 

THOAS. 

I will endeavour, lady. 

[ Takes the cup, and speaking aside. 

They will join 
In very openness of heart, to cast 
This shame upon me ; take the mantling cup 
With thoughtless pleasure from a warrior's hand, 
And smile to see it quiver ; bless the wine 
With household names, sweet thoughts of friends afar, 



32 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 

Or love which death hath hallowed ; and while springs 
Of cordial joy are quicken'd by the draught, 
Will bid affections, generous as their own, 
Shrink, agonize, and wither ! 

ismene. 

Slave ! attend ! 

Enter Hyllus and C reus a. 

CREON. 

Hyllus, our friends have pledg'd thee; take thy place, 
And thank them. 

hyllus. [Advancing. 

I am grateful. — Thoas, thus ? 

CREON. 

We blamM thy absence, daughter. Sit beside 
The queen. 

CREUSA. 

A humbler place befits me, father. 

[Sits at the end of the circle. 
[Thoas attempts to hand the cup. 



creusa. [To Hyllus. 



Brother, dost see? 



hyllus. [Aside to Thoas, taking the 
cup from him, 
Thoas, I blush at this ; 
Give me the cup. — Corinthian citizens, 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 33 

This is a moment when I cannot trust 

The grace of serving you to any hand 

Except mine own. The wine will send a glow 

Of rare delight when minister'd by one 

Who hath this day touchM life's extremest verge, 

And been most bravely rescued. 

[Hyllus hands the cup, 

ISMENE. 

Will the king 
Permit this mockery ? 

CREON. 

Foolish stripling, cease ! 
Let the slave hand the cup ; and having pass'd 
Another round, fill high, for I will pour 
A great libation out, with such a prayer 
As every heart shall echo while the dust 
Of Corinth drinks it in. 

£Thoas takes the cup, and approaches Creusa. 

creusa. 
Nay, tremble not. 
Think thou dost pay free courtesy to one 
Who in the fulness of a grateful heart, 
Implores the gods to cherish thee with hope 
For liberty and honour. 

THOAS. 

Words so sweet 
Reward and o'erpay all. 



34 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 

CREON. 

Corinthians, rise ! 
Before the gods, who have this day espoused 
The cause of Corinth, I this votive cup 
Pour with one glorious prayer — Ruin to Athens ! 

[Thoas dashes down the cup he is about to hand to the King. 

THOAS. 

Ruin to Athens ! who dares echo that ? 
Who first repeats it dies. These limbs are arm'd 
With vigour from the gods that watch above 
Their own immortal offspring. Do ye dream, 
Because chance lends ye one insulting hour, 
That ye can quench the purest flame the gods 
Have lit from heaven's own fire? 

hyllus. [Trying to appease the 

guests. 
'Tis ecstasy — 
Some phrenzy shakes him. 

THOAS. 

No ! I call the gods, 
Who bend attentive from their azure thrones, 
To witness to the truth of that which throbs 
Within me now. 'Tis not a city crown'd 
With olive and enrich 'd with peerless fanes 
Ye would dishonour, but an opening world 
Diviner than the soul of man hath yet 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 35 

Been gifted to imagine — truths serene, 

Made visible in beauty, that shall glow 

In everlasting freshness ; unapproach'd 

By mortal passion ; pure amidst the blood 

And dust of conquests ; never waxing old ; 

But on the stream of time, from age to age, 

Casting bright images of heavenly youth 

To make the world less mournful. I behold them ! 

And ye, frail insects of a day, would quaff 

" Ruin to Athens !" 

CREON. 

Are ye stricken all 
To statues, that ye hear these scornful boasts, 
And do not seize the traitor ? Bear him hence, 
And let the executioner's keen steel 
Prevent renewal of this outrage. 

IPHITUS. 

Hold! 
Some god hath spoken through him. 

ISMENE. 

Priest ! we need 
No counsel from thee. 

HYLLUS. 

Father, he will bend — 
'Twas madness — was't not, Thoas ? — answer me : 
Retract thy words ! 

d 2 



36 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 

THOAS. 

Fve spoken, and Til die. 

ISMENE. 

'Twere foolish clemency to end so soon 
The death.pangs of a slave who thus insults 
The king of Corinth. I can point a cell 
Deep in the rock, where he may wait thy leisure 
To frame his tortures. 

HYLLUS. \_To CREON. 

If thou wilt not spare, 
Deal with him in the light of day, and gaze 
Thyself on what thou dost, but yield him not 
A victim to that cold and cruel heart. 

ismene. \_Aside. 

Cold ! I must bear that too. {Aloud,) Thou hear'st him, 

king; 
Thou hear'st the insolence, which waxes bolder 
Each day, as he expects thy lingering age 
Will yield him Corinth's throne. 

CREON. 

Ungrateful boy ! 
Go, wander alien from my love ; avoid 
The city's bounds ; and if thou dare return 
Till I proclaim thy pardon, think to share 
The fate of the rash slave for whom thou plead'st. 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 37 

THOAS. 

King, I will grovel in the dust before thee ; 
Will give these limbs to torture ; nay, will strain 
Their free-born sinews for thy very sport, 
So thou recall the sentence on thy son. 

CREON. 

Thou wilt prolong his exile. To thy cell ! [To Thoas. 
There wait thy time of death ; — my heart is sick — 
But I have spoken. 

HYLLUS. 

Come with me, sweet sister, 
And take a dearer parting than this scene 
Admits. Look cheerily ; — I leave thy soul 
A duty which shall lift it from the sphere 
Of sighs and tremblings. Father, may the gods 
So cherish thee that thou may'st never mourn, 
With more than fond regret, the loss of one 
Whose love stays with thee ever. 

[Exeunt Hyllus and Creusa. 

iphitus. 

[Offering to support Creon. 
Hold ! he faints ! 

CREON. 

No; — I can walk unaided—rest will soothe me. 

[Exit Creon. 



53 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 11. 

ISMENE. 

Good night, my friends ! 

[Exeunt all but Ismene, Thoas, and Calchas. 
Thou, Calchas, wait and guard 
The prisoner to his cell. Thou know'st the place. 

THOAS. 

Lead on. 

ISMENE. 

[Coming to the front to Thoas. 
Thou wilt not sleep? 

thoas. 

I wish no sleep 
To reach these eyes, till the last sleep of all. 

ISMENE. 

Others may watch as well as thou. 

THOAS. 

Strange words 
Thou speakest, fearful woman ; are they mockeries ? 
Methinks they sound too solemn. 

ISMENE. 

Said I not, 
I am of Athens ? Hush ! These walls have echoes ; 
Thy gaoler is of Athens, too; at midnight 
He shall conduct thee where we may discourse 
In safety. Wilt thou follow him ? 



sckne n.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 39 

THOAS. 

I will. 

ISMENE. 

'Tis well. Conduct the prisoner to his dungeon. 
Remember, thou hast promis'd me. 

THOAS. 

My blood 
Is cold as ice ; yet will I keep the faith 
I plight to thee. 

[Exeunt Thoas and Calchas. 

ismene (alone). 

It is the heroic form 
Which I have seen in watching, and in sleep 
Frightfully broken, through the long, long, years 
Which I have wasted here in chains, more sad 
Than those which bind the death-devoted slave 
To his last stony pillow. Fiery shapes, 
That have glar'd in upon my bed to mock 
My soul with hopes of vengeance, keep your gaze 
Fix'd stedfast on me now ! My hour is nigh ! 

[Exit. 



end of act 



40 



THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 



[act III. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. 

The Dungeon in the Rock. 
Thoas discovered, alone. 

THOAS. 

Ye walls of living rock, whose time-shed stains 
Attest that ages have revolved since hands 
Of man were arm'd to pierce your solid frame, 
And, from your heart of adamant, hew out 
Space for his fellow's wretchedness, I hail 
A refuge in your stillness ; tyranny 
Will not stretch forth its palsied arm to fret 
Its captive here. Ye cannot clasp me round 
With darkness so substantial, as can shut 
The airy visions from me which foreshew 
The glories Athens will achieve, when I 
Am passionless as ye. I hear a step ! 
It is that mournful lady's minister, 
Who comes to waken feelings I would bid 
For ever sleep. A light, as of a star, 
Gleams in the narrow cavern's steep descent ; 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 41 

And now a form, as of a goddess, glides 
To illuminate its blackness, 'Tis Creusa ! 
My heart is not yet stone. 

Enter Creusa. 

I venture here 
Thus boldly to perform a holy office, 
Which should have been my brother's. — When he fled 
The city of his nurture, his last thoughts 
Were bent on his preserver ; he bequeathed 
His strong injunction never to forsake 
The aim of thy deliverance. I exult 
That heaven thus far has prospered it ; be quick, 
And follow me to freedom. 

THOAS. 

Did'st thou say 
To freedom, lovely one ? 

CREUSA. 

If thou wilt haste ; 
The path is clear ; the city wrapt in sleep ; 
I know the pass-word at the gates — how learn'd 
By quaint device, 111 tell thee when we meet 
In safety, — if we ever meet again ! 

THOAS. 

And dost thou wish it ? 

CREUSA. 

Do I wish it ? Yes ! 



42 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

And on the swift fulfilment of that wish 
My life is wager'd. 

thoas. 
There is more than life 
To me in these sweet words — speak them again — 
But no ; — once heard they linger on the ear 
Which drank them in, for ever. Shapeless rocks 
That witness to the sound, rejoice ! No fane 
Of alabaster while the breeze has slept 
In circling myrtles, and the moon disclos'd 
Young love's first blush to the rapt eyes of him 
Whose happy boldness rais'd it, rivals you 
In sanctity which rich affection lends 
To things of earthly mould. Methinks ye spring 
Rounded to columns; your dank mists are curFd 
Upwards in heavenly shapes, and breathe perfume, 
While every niche which caught the music speeds 
Delicious echoes to the soul. 'Twere bliss 
To dwell for ever here. 

CREUSA. 

O Hnger not ; 
The watch will change at midnight. 

THOAS. 

Midnight — Jove ! — 
I cannot go. 

CREUSA. 

Not go ! I ask no thanks — 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 43 

No recompense— no boon, — save the delight 

Of saving thee ; for this I've perill'd all — 

Life, freedom, fame, — and now thou tell'st me, proud one, 

That I have perill'd all in vain, 

THOAS. 

Forbear, 
In mercy ; I have pledg'd my word to wait 
A messenger the Queen will send at midnight, 
To bring me to her presence. 

CREUSA. 

To the Queen ? 
What would she with thee ? She is steel'd 'gainst nature ; 
I never knew her shed a tear, nor heard 
A sigh break from her, — oft she seeks a glen 
Hard by the temple of avenging Jove, 
Which sinks mid blasted rocks, whose narrow gorge 
Scarce gives the bold explorer space ; its sides, 
Glistening in marble blackness, rise aloft 
From the scant margin of a pool, whose face 
No breeze e'er dimpled ; in its furthest shade 
A cavern yawns, where poisonous vapours rise 
That none may enter it and live ; they spread 
Their rolling films of ashy white like shrouds 
Around the fearful orifice, and kill 
The very lichens which the earthless stone 
Would nurture; — whether evil men, or things 



44 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

More terrible, meet this sad lady there, 
I know not— she will lead thee thither ! 

THOAS. 

No— 
Not if guilt point the way, if it be sorrow 
I must endure it rather than the curse 
Which lies upon the faithless heart of him 
Who breaks a promise plighted to the wretched ; 
For she is wretched. 

CREUSA. 

So am I. Methinks 
I am grown selfish ; for it is not suffering 
I dread should fall upon thee, but I tremble 
Lest witchery of that awful woman's grief 
Lead thee to some rash deed. Thou art a soldier, 
A young proficient in the game of death, 
And mayst be wrought on — 

THOAS. 

Do not fear for me ; 
Where shews of glory beckon I'll not wait 
To pluck away the radiant masks and find 
Death under them ; but at the thought of blood 
Shed save in hottest fight, my spirit shrinks 
As from some guilt not aim'd at human things 
But at the majesty of gods. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 4 

CREUSA. 

Forgive me ; 
It was a foolish terror swept across 
My soul, — I should not have forgot 'twas mercy 
That made thee captive. 

Voice without. 
Thoas! 

THOAS. 

I am calPd. 
The voice came that way — still thy upward path 
Is open — haste — he must not find thee here. 

CREUSA. 

My prayers — all that the weak can give— are thine. 
Farewell ! [Exit. 

THOAS. 

The gods for ever guard thee ! 
She glides away — she gains the topmost ridge — 
She's safe. Now can I welcome fate with bosom 
Steel'd to endure the worst. 

Voice without. 
Thoas ! 

THOAS. 

I come ! {Exit, 



46 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

SCENE II. 

Tfie Hall of Statues, in Creon's Palace. 
Enter Ismene. 

ISMENE. 

Why tarries Calchas ? It is past the hour 
Of deepest night, when he should hither guide 
The avenger of my sorrows. Gods of Athens ! 
Whom strong expostulation hath compelled 
To look upon my shames, one little hour 
I ask your aid ; that granted, never more 
Shall the constraining force of passion break 
Your dread repose. I hear a warrior's step — 
Ye answer, and ye bless me. 

Enter Calchas and Thoas. 
It is well. 

[To Calchas. 
Withdraw, and wait without. I must confer 
With this unyielding man, alone. 

[Exit Calchas. 

THOAS. 

I wait 
To learn thy will ; — why thou hast bid me leave 
The stubborn rock, where I had grown as dull, 
As painless, as the cell to which thy breath 
Consign'd me ? — thou, who urg'd the king to wreak 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 47 

His most inglorious spleen on one too low 

To be mark'd out for anger, too resolv'd 

To heed it! . r> 

ISMENE. 

I beheld in thee a soldier, 
Born of that glorious soil whose meanest son 
Is nobler than barbarian kings, with arm 
Worthy to serve a daughter, who has claim 
On its best blood. But there is softness in thee, 
Weakening thy gallant nature, which may need 
The discipline of agony and shame 
To master it. Hast thou already learn'd 
Enough to steel thee for a generous deed ; 
Or shall I wait till thou hast linger" d long 
In sorrow's mighty school ? I'm mistress in it, 
And know its lessons well. 

THOAS. 

If thou hast aught 
Of honor to suggest, I need no more 
To fit me for thy purpose ; if thy aim 
Hath taint of treachery or meanness in it, 
I think no pain will bend me to thy will ; 
At least, I pray the gods so ! 

ISMENE. 

Had'st thou borne 
Long years of lingering wretchedness like mine, 
Thou would'st not play the casuist thus. 'Tis well 



48 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

For lusty youth, that casts no glance beyond 
To-morrow's fight or game, which values life 
A gewgaw, to be perill'd at a plunge 
From some tall rock into an eddying gulph, 
For the next revel's glory, to collect 
The blood into the cheek, and bravely march 
Amidst admiring people to swift death, 
And call its heedlessness of what it yields — 
A sacrifice heroic. But who knows, 
Who guesses, save the woman that endures, 
What 'tis to pine each weary day in forms 
All counterfeit;— each night to seek a couch 
Throng'd by the phantoms of revenge, till age 
Find her in all things weaken'd, save the wish, 
The longing of the spirit, which laughs out 
In mockery of the withering frame ! O Thoas, 
I have endured all this — I, who am sprung 
From the great race of Theseus ! 

THOAS. 

From the race 
Of Theseus ! — of the godlike man whose name 
Hath shone upon my childhood as a star 
With magic power ? 

ISMENE. 

Reduc'd to basest needs 
By slow decay in Attica, array 'd 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE, 49 

In hateful splendour here, I bear small trace 

Of whence I sprung. No matter — spurn' d — disownM 

By living kindred, I have converse held 

With those of my great family whom Death 

Hath stripped of all but glory ; and they wait 

The triumph of this hour to hail me theirs, 

THOAS. 

Shame to our city, who allowed a matron 
Of that great race to languish ! 

ISMENE. 

Let it pass ;^ 
A single grief — a short and casual wrong — 
Which — in that sense of ages past and hopes 
Resplendent for the future, which are center'd 
In the great thought of country, and make rich 
The poorest citizen who feels a share 
In her — is nothing. Had she sought my blood, 
To mingle with the dust before the rush 
Of some triumphant entry, I had shed it ; 
And while my life gush'd forth, had tasted joy 
Akin to her rapt hero's. 'Tis thy lot — 
Thy glorious lot — to give me all I live for, — 
Freedom and vengeance. 

THOAS. 

What would'st have me do? 



5» THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. Tact hi. 

ISMENE. 

I have not wasted all the shows, of power 
Which mock'd my grief, but used them to conceal 
The sparks which tyrant fickleness had lit, 
And sloth had left to smoulder. In the depths 
Of neighbouring caverns, foes of Creon meet 
Who will obey thee ; lead them thence to-night — 
Surprise the palace — slay this hated king, — 
Or bear him as a slave to Athens. 

THOAS. 

Never ! 
I am a foe to Corinth — not a traitor, 
Nor will I league with treason. In the love 
Of my own land, I honour his who cleaves 
To the scant graces of the wildest soil, 
As I do to the loveliness, the might, 
The hope, of Athens. Aught else man can do, 
In honor, shall be thine. 

ISMENE. 

I thought I knew 
Athenians well ; and yet, thy speech is strange. 
Whence drew thou these affections, — whence these thoughts 
Which reach beyond a soldier's sphere ? 

THOAS. 

From Athens: 



Her groves ; her halls ; her temples ; nay, her streets 
Have been my teachers. I had else been rude, 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 51 

For I was left an orphan, in the charge 
Of an old citizen, who gave my youth 
Rough though kind nurture. Fatherless, I made 
The city and her skies my home ; have watch'd 
Her various aspects with a child's fond love ; 
Hung in chill morning o'er the mountain's brow, 
And, as the dawn broke slowly, seen her grow 
Majestic from the darkness, till she fill'd 
The sight and soul alike ; enjoy'd the storm 
Which wrapt her in the mantle of its cloud, 
While every flash that shiver'd it reveal'd 
Some exquisite proportion, pictur'd once 
And ever to the gazer ; — stood entranc'd 
In rainy moonshine, as, one side, uprose 
A column'd shadow, ponderous as the rock 
Which held the Titan groaning with the sense 
Of Jove's injustice ; on the other, shapes 
Of dreamlike softness drew the fancy far 
Into the glistening air ; but most I felt 
Her loveliness, when summer-evening tints 
Gave to my lonely childhood sense of home. 

ISMENE. 

And was no spot amidst that radiant waste 
A home to thee indeed ? 

THOAS. 

The hut which held 
My foster-father had for me no charms, 

e 2 



52 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi 

Save those his virtues shed upon its rudeness. 
I lived abroad ; — and yet there is a spot 
Where I have felt that faintness of the heart 
Which traces of oblivious childhood bring 
Upon ripe manhood ; where small heaps of stones, 
Blackened by fire, bear witness to a tale 
Of rapine which destroyed my mother's cot, 
And bore her thence to exile. 

ISMENE. 

Mighty gods ! 
Where stand these ruins? 

THOAS. 

On a gentle slope. 
Broken by workings of an ancient quarry, 
About a furlong from the western gate, 
Stand these remains of penury ; one olive, 
Projecting o'er the cottage site which fire 
Had blighted, with two melancholy stems, 
Streamed o'er its meagre vestiges. 

ISMENE. 

'Tis plain ! 
Hold ! hold ! my courage. Let the work be done, 
And then I shall aspire. I must not wait 
Another hour for vengeance. Dreadful powers ! 
Who on the precipice's side at eve 
Have bid gigantic shadows greyly pass 
Before my mortal vision, — dismal forms 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. ;53 

Of a fate-stricken race — I see him now, 
Whom ye led follower of your ghastly train — 
O nerve him for his office ! 

THOAS. 

Fearful woman, 
Speak thy command, if thou would have it reach 
A conscious ear; for whilst thou gazest thus, 
My flesh seems hardening into stone ; my soul 
Is tainted ; thought of horror courses thought 
Like thunder-clouds swept wildly ; — yet I feel 
That I must do thy bidding. 

ISMENE. 

It is well ; — 
Hast thou a weapon ? 

THOAS. 

Yes ; the generous prince, 
When I resign' d my arms, left me a dagger. 

ISMENE. 

The prince ! The Furies sent it by his hand, 
For justice on his father. 

THOAS. 

On thy husband ? 

ISMENE, 

Husband! Beware !— my husband moulders yet 
Within his rusting armour ; such a word 



.54 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

From thee may pierce the rock beneath whose shade 

He fell, and curse him with a moment's life 

To blast thee where we stand. If this slight king, 

In the caprice of tyranny was pleas'd 

To deck me out in regal robes, dost think 

That in his wayward smiles, or household taunts, 

I can forget the wretchedness and shame 

He hurPd upon me once ? 

THOAS. 

What shame ? 

1SMENE. 

What shame ! 
Thou hast not heard it. Listen ! I was pluck'd 
From the small pressure of an only babe, 
And in my frenzy, sought the hall where Creon 
Drained the frank goblet ; fell upon my knees ; 
Embrac'd his foot-stool with my hungry arms, 
And shriek'd aloud for liberty to seek 
My infant's ashes, or to hear some news 
Of how it perish'd; — Creon did not deign 
To look upon me, but with reckless haste 
Dash'd me to earth ; — yes ; this disgrace he cast 
On the proud daughter of a line which trac'd 
Its skiey lineage to the gods, and bore 
The impress of its origin, — on me, 
A woman, and a mother ! 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 55 

THOAS. 

Let me fly 
And whet Athenian anger with thy wrongs — 
My thoughts are strange and slaughterous. 

ismene. \_After a pause. 

Fly then ! Yes !— 
{Aside.) 'T will be as certain. — I will point a way 
Will lead thee through a chamber to the terrace, 
Whence thou may'st reach the wall. Thy only peril 
Lies in that chamber. Mark me well ; — if there 
An arm be rais'tt to stay thee — if a voice 
Be heard — or if aught mortal meet thy sight, 
Whate'er the form, thy knife is pledged to quench 
The life that breathes there. 

THOAS. 

I obey. Farewell ! 
\_He takes her hand ; she shivers ; and drops it. 

ISMENE. 

Hold off thy hand — it thrills me. — Swear ! 

THOAS. 

By those 
Who hover o'er us now, I swear ! 

ISMENE. 

Be firm. 
That is the door; — thou canst not miss the path. 
Is thy steel ready ? 



56 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iit. 

THOAS. 

Yes ; — my breast is cold 
As is that steel. 

ISMENE. 

Haste — the thick darkness wanes. 

[_Exit Thoas. 
Infernal powers ! I thank ye — all is paid — 
By thousand ectsasies in which my soul 
Grows wanton. Calchas ! 

Enter Calchas. 

Wish me joy, old servant ! 
What dost thou think of him who left me now ? 

calchas. 
A gallant soldier. 

ISMENE. 

,r Tis my son — my own ! 
The very child for whom I knelt to Creon, 
Is sent to give me justice. He is gone, 
Arm'd with a dagger, thro 1 the royal chamber, 
Sworn to strike any that may meet him there 
A corpse before him. Dost thou think the king 
Will see to-morrow P 

calchas. 
He may slumber. 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 57 

ISMENK. 

No— 
He hath sent his son to exile — he will wake — 
I'm sure he will. There ! listen ! — "'twas a groan ! 
'Twill be but low— again ! 'Tis finish'd ! Shades 
Of my immortal ancestry, look down, 
And own me of your kindred ! — Calchas, haste ; 
Secure possession of the towers that guard 
The city gates : — entrust them to our friends, 
Who, when I give the word, will set them wide. 
Haste, 'tis thy final labour. I shall soon 
Be potent to reward the friends who clove 
To me in my sad bondage. 

CALCHAS. 

Whither go'st thou ? 

1SMENE. 

To the pale shrine of her whose withering shield 

Is dedicate to Athens. I have pray'd 

At coldest midnight there, without a hope 

Which might give ardour to my freezing veins. 

I ask her to allay my raptures now, 

By touch of marble — I require its chillness. 

There I'll await the issue. It is sure ! 

\_Excunt Ismene and Calchas. 



58 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 



SCENE III. 

The Outskirts of a Wood on one side ; the Athenian Camp on 
the other. A Watch-fire at a little distance, lighting the Scene. 

pent he us (walking backwards andfoncards as a Guard). 

The cold grey dawn begins to glimmer ; speed it, 

Ye powers that favour Athens ! From the sea, 

Her everlasting guardian, Phoebus, rise, 

To pour auspicious radiance o'er the field, 

In which she may efface the foul dishonour 

Her arms own'd yesterday. Not shame alone, 

But loss no morrow can repair, is hers ! 

Arch as, our army's noble leader, sleeps 

Beneath the pressure of a thousand shields ; 

And Thoas, bravest of our youth, a slave — 

Perchance, ere this a corpse. Friend whom I loved, 

In whose advancing glories I grew proud 

As though they had been mine— if yet thou breathest, 

I will deliver, and if dead, avenge thee ! 

O, Thoas ! 

Enter Thoas wildly, from the Wood, 

THOAS. 

Who pronounced that wretched name, — 
That name no honest tongue may utter more ? 

Pentheus ! 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 59 

PENTHEUS. 

Thoas ! most welcome. Thou art come in time 
To share a glorious conflict. Ha ! thine eyes 
Glare with a frightful light ; — be calm, — thou art safe ; — 
This is the camp of those who will reward 
Thy great emprise of yesterday, with place 
Among the foremost in the battle. Come 
To my exulting heart. \_Offering to embrace Thoas. 

thoas. 
No ! — hold me from thee ! — 
My heart can ne^r know fellowship again 
With such as thine ; for I have paid a price 
For this vile liberty to roam abroad, 
And cry to woods and rocks that answer me 
With fearful echoes : — such a price, my Pentheus — 
My own unspotted conscience. Dost not see 
Foul spots of blood upon this slave's apparel, 
Polluting e'en that dress ? 

PENTHEUS. 

If thou hast struck 
Some soldier down to vindicate thy freedom, 
Who shall accuse thee ? 

THOAS. 

'Twas no soldier, Pentheus ; 
No stout opponent that my fatal knife 1 
Dismiss'd to Erebus. A wither'd hand, 



60 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

As from an old man, in the gloom stretcird forth, 
Scarce met my touch, — which could not have delay'd 
My course an instant ; — 'twas no thought of fear, 
No haste for freedom, urged me, — but an oath 
Glar'd on my soul in characters of flame, 
And madden'd me to strike. I rais'd my arm, 
And wildly hurl'd my dagger ; — nought but air 
It seem'd to meet; — but a sharp feeble sigh, 
Such as death urges when it stops the gasp 
Of wasting age, assur'd me it had done 
A murderer's office. 

PENTHEUS. 

Think not of it thus: — 
Thy lips are parch'd, — let me fetch water. 

THOAS. 

No! 
I have drank fiercely at a mountain spring, 
And left the stain of blood in its pure waters ; 
It quenchM my mortal thirst, and I rejoiced, 
For I seem'd grown to demon, till the streaan 
Cool'd my hot throat, and then I laugh'd aloud, 
To find that I had something human still. 

PENTHEUS. 

Fret not thy noble heart with what is past. 

THOAS. 

No ! — 'tis not past ! — the murderer has no past ; 
But one eternal present. 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 61 

hyllus. [Within the wood. 

Help me ! — answer ! — 

THOAS. 

The voice of Hyllus ! — of that noble youth, 
Who, for my sake, is outcast from his home, 
So near the camp of Athens ! Should our guards 
Arrest him, he will perish. Friend ! That voice 
Comes on my ear like that of one who serv'd me, 
In yonder city ; leave thy watch to me 
A moment. 

PENTHEUS. 

No — thy passion's dangerous; 
I dare not trust it. 

THOAS. 

See — I have subdu'd 
The pang which wrung me. By our ancient loves 
Grant me this boon — perhaps the last. 

PENTHEUS. 

Be quick, 
For the watch presently will be remov'd, 
And the trump call to battle. {Exit Pentheus. 

thoas. [Calling to Hyllus. 

Here ! The hope 
Of saving Hyllus wafts into my soul 
A breath of comfort. 



62 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in. 

Enter Hyllus. 

HYLLUS. 

I have lost my path, 
Wandering the dismal night in this old wood ; 
Fd seek the coast ; canst thou point out the way ? 

THOAS. 

Avoid it — on each side the Isthmus, ships 
Of Athens ride at anchor. 

hyllus. [Recognising him. 

Thoas ! free — 
Then I am bless'd, and I can bear my lot, 
However hard ; — I guess the hand that op'd 
The dungeon door ; — how didst thou quit the palace ? 

THOAS. 

Why dost thou ask me that ? Through a large chamber 
That open'd on a terrace — 'twas all dark ; — 
Tell me who lay there ? 

HYLLUS. 

'Tis my father's chamber, 
Did he awake ? 

THOAS. 

Thy father ?— gods ! The king ? 
The feeble old man with the reverend hair ? 
Art sure he rested there ? 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. G3 

HYLLUS. 

Sure. No one else 
May enter after sunset, save the queen. 

THOAS. 

The queen ! all's clear ; — Jove strike me into marble ! 

HYLLUS. 

Why dost thou tremble so ? as if a fit 
Of ague shook thee. 

THOAS. 

Nothing — only thought 
Of my past danger came upon my soul 
And shook it strangely. Was the old man there ? 

[ Stands abstractedly as stupefied. 

PENTHEUS. [Without. 

Thoas ! 

THOAS. 

Haste ! — Do not lose a moment — fly ! 
The watch-fire that is waning now is fed 
By hands which, madden 'd by the foul defeat 
Of yesterday, will slay thee. 

HYLLUS. 

Whither fly ? 
The camp of Athens is before me ; — ships 
Of Athens line the coasts, — and Corinth's king 



64 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in 

Hath driven me forth an exile. I'll return 
And crave my fathers pardon. 

THOAS. 

No — not there- 
Yet, where should the poor stripling go? O Jove ! 
When he shall learn — . 

HYLLUS. 

Farewell — yet hold an instant ! — 
Wilt thou not send some message to Creusa, 
That she may greet her brother with a smile ? 

THOAS. 

Creusa smile ! — Methinks I see her now — 
Her form expands — her delicate features grow 
To giant stone ; her hairs escape their band, 
And stream aloft in air ; — and now they take 
The forms of fiery serpents— how they hiss — 
And point their tongues at Thoas ! 

HYLLUS. 

This is frenzy ; 
I cannot leave thee thus : — whate'er my fate, 
I will attend and soothe thee. 

THOAS. 

Soothe me ! — Boy, 
Wouldst haunt me with that face which now I see 
Is like thy father's. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Thou soothe me — 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE, C5 

Look not upon me; by this lurid light 

Thou look'st a spectre. Hence, or I will rend thee ! 

HYLLUS. 

I rather would die here. 

THOAS. 

Fool ! fool ! away ! 

[Exit Hyllus. 
He's gone — yet she is with me still, — with looks 
More terrible than anger ; — take away 
That patient face, — I cannot bear its sweetness ; — 
Earth, cover me ! [Falls on the ground. 

Enter Pentheus. 

PENTHEUS. 

The troops are arming fast ; 
They call on thee to lead them.— Hark, the trump — 

[ The trumpet sounds. 
thoas. [Leaps up. 

Yes ; I will answer to its call. Again 
Thou shalt behold me strike. In yonder field 
I'll win that which I hunger for, 

PENTHEUS. 

A crown 
Of laurel which hath floated in thy dreams 
From thy brave infancy — 

THOAS. 

A grave! a grave ! [Exeunt. 

END OF THE THIRD ACT. 



66 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

The interior of the Funereal Grove at Corinth. 

The Urn o^Creon. 

Creusa discovered bending over it. 

CREUSA. 

'Tis strange! — I cannot weep for him; Fve tried 

To reckon every artifice of love 

Which mid my father's waywardness proclaim'd 

His tenderness unalter'd ; — felt again 

The sweet caresses infancy receiv'd, 

And read the prideful look that made them sweeter, 

Have run the old familiar round of things 

Indifferent, on which affection hangs 

In delicate remembrances which make 

Each household custom sacred ; — Fve recall 'd 

From Memory's never-failing book of pain, 

My own neglects of dutiful regard 

Too frequent — all that should provoke a tear — 

And all in vain. My feelings are as dull, 

Mine eyes are rigid as when first they met 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 67 

The horrid vision of his thin white hairs 
Matted with blood. Gods ! let me know again 
A touch of natural grief, or I shall go 
Distract, and think the bloody form is here. 

Enter Hyllus. 
Hyllus ! my brother ! thou wilt make me weep, 
For we shall mourn as we were lov'd together. 
Dost thou know all ? 

HYLLUS. 

Yes, all. — Alas ! Creusa, 
He died in anger with me. 

CREUSA. 

Do not dwell 
On that sad thought ; — but recollect the cause 
Was noble — the defence of one whose soul 
Claims kindred with thine own. 

HYLLUS. 

Unhappy sister, 
What sorrow stranger than thy present grief 
Awaits thee yet ! I cannot utter it. 

CREUSA. 

Speak ; — any words of thine will comfort me. 

HYLLUS. 

I fear thou must no longer link the thoughts 
Of nobleness and Thoas. 

f 2 



t)8 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

CREUSA. 
Then my soul 
Must cease all thinkings ; for I've blended them 
Till they have grown inseparate. What is this ? 

HYLLUS. 

That he hath made us orphans. 

CREUSA. 

He is free 
From such ignoble guiltiness as thou. 
What fury shed this thought into a soul 
Once proud to be his debtor ? 

HYLLUS. 

Poor believer 
In virtue's dazzling counterfeit, 'tis sad 
To undeceive thee. At the break of day 
I met the murderer, frantic from his crime, 
In anguish which explain'd by after proofs 
Attests his guilt. 

CREUSA. 

And is this all ? Hast said ? 
All thou canst urge against the nobleness 
Which breathes in every word ? Against thy life 
Preserv'd at liberal hazard of his own ? 
Against the love which I was proud to bear 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 69 

For him, and that with which he more than paid me ? 
He in some frenzy utter' d aimless words, 
And thou at once believ'd him guilty. Go ! 
Haste and accuse him. Henceforth we are twain. 

HYLLUS. 

Sister, I never will accuse him. 

CREUSA. 

Take 
My thanks for that small promise, though our souls, 
While thine is tainted with this foul belief, 
Can ne'er be mingled as they have been. Now 
I see why I was passionless. Ismene 
Bends her steps hither ; thou hadst best retire ; 
She rules the city, for her secret friends 
Cast off their masks, and own themselves the foes 
Of Corinth's prince. 

HYLLUS. 

Beside my father's urn 
I shall await her. 

CREUSA. 

I will not expose 
My anguish to her cold and scornful gaze ; — 
Brother, farewell awhile ; we are divided, 
But I will bless thee. [Exit. 



70 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

Enter IsMene and Guards. 

1SMENE. 

Wherefore art thou here, 
Despite the sentence which the king pronounc'd 
Of exile ? 

HYLLUS. 

I have come to mourn a father, 
Whose words of passion had been long unsaid, 
Had his kind heart still throbb'd ; and next, to claim 
My heritage. 

ISMENE. 

Thine ! — win it if thou canst 

Enter Calchas. 
How stands the battle ? 

CALCHAS. 

Corinth's soldiers fly, 
Routed in wild disorder. Thoas leads 
The troops of Athens, and will soon appear 
In triumph at our gates. 

ISMENE. 

Leads, say'st thou ? — leads ? 
Let Corinth's gates stand open to admit 
The hero, — give him conduct to the hall, 
Where sculptured glories of Corinthian kings 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 71 

Shall circle him who sham'd them, — there, alone, 

I would crave speech with him. [Exit Calchas. 

hyllus. [To the Soldiers. 

My countrymen, 
Will ye endure this shame ? I am a youth 
Unskill'd in war ; but I have learn'd to die 
When life is infamy. If ye will join me, 
We'll close the gates with ramparts of the slain. 
Does no heart answer mine ? 

ISMENE. 

Their swords shall curb 
Thy idle ravings. Athens triumphs now ! — 
Attend him to his chamber, and beware 
He leaves it not. 

HYLLUS. 

For this I ought to thank thee : 
I would not see my country's foul disgrace ; 
But thou shalt tremble yet. [Exit, guarded. 

ISMENE. 

Now shall I clasp him — 
Clasp him a victor o'er my country's foes ; — 
The slayer of him most hated. Double transport ! 
The dream of great revenge I lived upon 
Was never bright with image of such joy, 
And now comes link'd with vengeance ! Thoas, haste ! 

[Exit. 



THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act it. 



SCENE II. 

Before the Gates of Corinth. 
Shouts tcithout. 
Enter Thoas in armour, with his sword drawn, and 
Athenian Soldiers, as in pursuit. 

THOAS. 

Here we may breathe awhile from conquest ; 'twas 
A noble chase, we scarce may call it battle ; 
Success so quick hath followed on success, 
That we shall want more time to count our glories 
Than we have spent in winning them. The foe 
Is niggard, and will not allow our arms 
One day of conflict. We have won too soon. 
Grant me, great gods, instead of years of life, 
Another such an hour ! 

SOLDIER. 

My lord, here's wine ; 
'Tis from the tents of Corinth. 

THOAS. 

Not a drop. 
My heart's too light — too jocund, to allow 
Another touch of ecstacy, deriv'd 
From mortal fruitage; nay, were it Jove's nectar, 
I'd set the untasted cup of crystal down, 
And wait till all our glorious work were finish'd ! 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 73 

Soldiers ! we sup in Corinth ! You'll not wait 
Past time of hunger, if ye are not faint 
With rapid conquest. 

Enter Pentheus and Soldiers. 

PENTHEUS. 

Noble leader, hail ! 
Thy country's heroes bless thee with the sense 
Of their delighted wonder ! With one voice 
They greet thee as the winner of this fight, 
To which thou led them. Never was a scheme 
Of battle, plann'd in council of the sage, 
Form'd with a skill more exquisite than that 
Which, in the instant thou wert call'd to lead us, 
Flashed on thy spirit, and in lines of fire 
From thine was manifest to ours I Art wounded ? 

THOAS. 

A very scratch ; I blush to think no more : 
Some frolic blood let in the strife had serv'd 
To moderate my fervours. 

PENTHEUS. 

See ; our comrades 
Have snatched a branch from the Corinthian laurels 
(Which now I fear must wither) for a wreath 
To grace thy brow ! Soldiers, 'tis much I ask ; 
But when 1 tell ye I have watch'd your chief 



74 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

From the first flash that dazzled in his eye 

At tale of glory, ye may yield to me 

The proud delight of offering him this honor. 

[Soldier gives the wreath to Pentheus, who gives it to 
Thoas. 

PENTHEUS. 

I thank ye, comrades. 

THOAS. 

The immortal gods 
Grant me a double blessing in the friend 
From whom I take this happiness. O, Pentheus ! 
I have mus'd fondly — proudly — on the fate 
Which waits upon my country ; when the brow 
Which thou wouldst deck, was barM to mist and storm ; 
When every moonlit fountain which displaced 
The blackness of the moss-grown hillock told 
Of the pure beauty which her name should keep, 
Empearling starless ages; when each wave 
That rippled in her harbour to my ear 
Spoke glad submission to the Queen of Cities ; 
But never, 'mid my burning hopes for Athens, 
Did I believe that / should stand thus crown'd, 
Her laurelTd soldier ! Friends, the sun-light wanes, 
And we must sup in Corinth ! 

PENTHEUS. 

See, the gates 
Open to welcome us ! \_The gates open. 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 75 

THOAS. • 

Without a blow ? 
We shall not earn our banquet. So expands 
Before the vision of my soul, the east 
To the small cluster of our godlike sons. 
Let Asia break the mirror of our seas 
With thousand sterns of ivory, and cast 
The glare of gold upon them to disturb 
The azure hue of heaven, they shall be swept 
As glittering clouds before the sun-like face 
Of unapplianced virtue ! Friends, forgive me ; 
I have been used to idle thought, nor yet 
Have learn'd to marry it to action. Blest 
To-day in both. 

PENTHEUS. 

A herald from the city. 
Enter Calchas. 

CALCHAS. 

I am commission^ by the queen to speak 
With Thoas. 

THOAS. 

I am here. 

[ Trembles ■, and supports himself \ as paralysed, on 
Pentheus. 

Thou art commission'd 

From the infernal powers to cross my path 



76 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

Of glorious triumph, with a shape that brings 
Before me terrible remembrance, which 
Had strangely vanish'd from me. 

pe nth E u s . [ To the Soldiers. 

He is ill,— 
Retire. 

THOAS. 

No — should the herald fade in air 
He would not leave his office unfulfill'd, 
One look hath smit my soul. 

PENTHEUS. 

Is this a dream ? 

THOAS. 

No — "'tis a dreadful waking — I have dreamt 

Of honour, and have struggled in my dream 

For Athens, as if I deserved to fight 

Unsullied in her cause. The joy of battle 

In eddies as a whirlpool had engulf 'd 

The thought of one sad moment, when my soul 

Was blasted ; but it rises in the calm, 

Like to a slaughter 'd seaman, who pursues 

The murderous vessel which swept proudly on, 

When his death-gurgle ended. Hence, vain wreath ! — 

Thou wouldst entwine my brow with serpent coldness, 

And wither instant there. \_Tears the wreath. 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 77 

So vanish all 
My hopes; they are gone — I'm fit to answer thee 
Who sent thee here ? \_To Calchas. 

calchas. 
The queen. 

THOAS. 

A worthy mistress 
Of such a slave— thy errand ? 

CALCHAS. 

She who rules 
In Corinth now, admits the victor's power, 
And bids the gates thus open : she requires 
A conference with Thoas in the hall 
Next to the royal chamber — thou hast been 
There, as I think, my lord. 

THOAS. 

I know full well , 
Lead, dreadful herald, on. 

PENTHEUS. 

The troops attend 
The order of their general. 

thoas. \_To Calchas. 

Why dost wait ? 
Thou see'st that I obey thy call. 



78 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

PENTHEUS. 

My friend, 
Thy blood is fever' d — thou may'st choose thy time- 
Postpone this meeting. 

THOAS. \_To CALCHAS. 

Why dost tarry ? turn 
Thy face away — it maddens me — go on ! 

\_Exit after Calchas. 

SOLDIER. [To PENTHEUS. 

My lord, we wait for orders ; this strange man, 
Half warrior and half rhapsodist, may bring 
Our army into peril. 

PENTHEUS. 

Fear it not ; 
He has all elements of greatness in him, 
Although as yet not perfectly commingled, 
Which is sole privilege of gods. They cast 
Such piteous weakness on the noblest men 
That we may feel them mortal. 'Tis a cloud 
Which speedily will pass, and thou shalt see 
The hero shine as clearly forth in council 
As he has done in victory. Meanwhile 
He leaves us pleasant duty — form your lines — 
Sound trumpets— march triumphant into Corinth! 

\The Athenians enter Corinth. 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 79 



SCENE III. 

The Hall of Statues in the Palace, same as in Third Act. 

thoas. \_Alone. 

Again I stand within this awful hall ; 
I found the entrance here, without the sense 
Of vision ; for a foul and clinging mist, 
Like the damp vapour of a long-closed vault, 
Is round me. Now its objects start to sight 
With terrible distinctness ! Crimson stains 
Break sudden on the walls ! The fretted roof 
Grows living ! Let me hear a human voice, 
Or I shall play the madman ! 

Enter Ismene, richly dressed. 

ISMENE. 

Noble soldier, 
I bid thee welcome, with the rapturous heart 
Of one, for whom thy patriot arm hath wrought 
Deliverance and revenge — but more for Athens 
Than for myself, I hail thee : why dost droop ? 
Art thou oppressed with honours, as a weight 
Thou wert not born to carry ? I will tell 
That which shall show thee native to the load, 



80 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

And will requite thee with a joy as great 
As that thou hast conferr'd. Thy life was hid 
Beneath inglorious accident, till force 
Of its strong current urged it forth to day, 
To glisten and expand in sun-light. Know 
That it has issu'd from a fountain great 
As is its destiny. — -Thou sharest with me 
The blood of Theseus. 

THOAS. 

If thy speech is true, 
And I have something in me which responds 
To its high tidings, I am doom'd to bear 
A heavier woe than I believ'd the gods 
Would ever lay on mortal ; I have stood 
Unwittingly upon a skiey height, 
By ponderous gloom encircled, — thou hast shown 
The mountain-summit mournfully revers'd 
In the black mirror of a lurid lake, 
Whose waters soon shall cover me, — I've stain'd 
A freeman's nature ; thou hast shown it sprung 
From gods and heroes, and wouldst have me proud 
Of the foul sacrilege. 

ISMENE. 

If that just deed, 
Which thus disturbs thy fancy, were a crime, 
What is it in the range of glorious acts, 
Past and to come, to which thou art allied, 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 81 

But a faint speck, an atom, which no eye 
But thine would dwell on ? 

THOA.S. 

It infests them all, 
Spreads out funereal blackness as they pass 
In sad review before me. Hadst thou pour'd 
This greatness on my unpolluted heart, 
How had it bounded ! now it tortures me, 
From thee, fell sorceress, who snar'd my soul 
Here — in this very hall ! — May the strong curse 
Which breathes from out the ruins of a nature 
Blasted by guilt — 

1SMENE. 

Hold ! Parricide — forbear ! 
She whom thou hast aveng'd, she whom the death 
Of Creon hath set free, whom thou wouldst curse, 
Is she who bore thee ! 

THOAS. 

Thou! 

ISMENE. 

Dost doubt my word ? 
Is there no witness in thy mantling blood 
Which tells thee whence 'twas drawn ? Is nature silent ? 
If, from the mists of infancy, no form 
Of her who, sunk in poverty, forgat 
Its ills in tending thee, and made the hopes 

G 



82 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act tv. 

Which glimmer' d in thy smiles her comfort, — gleams 
Upon thee yet ; — hast thou forgot the night 
When foragers from Corinth toss'd a brand 
Upon the roof that shelter'd thee ; dragg'd out 
The mother from the hearth-stone where she sat, 
Resign'd to perish, shrieking for the babe 
Whom from her bosom they had rent ? That child 
Now listens. As in rapid flight, I gazed 
Backward upon the blazing ruin, shapes 
Of furies, from amid the fire, look'd out 
And grinn'd upon me. Every weary night 
While I have lain upon my wretched bed, 
They have been with me, pointing to the hour 
Of vengeance. Thou hast wrought it for me, son ! 
Embrace thy mother. 

THOAS. 

Would the solid earth 
Would open, and enfold me in its strong 
And stifling grasp, that I might be as though 
I ne'er was born. 

ISMENE. 

Dost mock me ? I have clasp'd 
Sorrow and shame as if they were my sons, 
To keep my heart from hardening into stone ; 
The promised hour arrWd ; and when it came, 
The furies, in repayment, sent an arm, 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 83 

Moulded from mine, to strike the oppressor dead. 
I triumph'd, — and I sent thee! 

THOAS. 

Dost confess 
That, conscious who I was, thou urgM my knife 
Against the king ? 

ISMENE. 

Confess ! — I glory in it ! — 
Thy arm hath done the purpose of my will ; 
For which I bless it. Now I am thy suitor. 
Victorious hero ! Pay me for those cares 
Long past, which man ne'er guesses at ; — for years 
Of daily, silent suffering, which young soldiers 
Have not a word to body forth ; for all, — 
By filling for a moment these fond arms, 
Which held thee first. 

THOAS. [Shrinking from her. 

I cannot. I will kneel, 
To thank thee for thy love, ere thou didst kill 
Honour and hope ; — then grovel at thy feet, 
And pray thee trample out the wretched life 
Thou gav'st me. 

ISMENE. 

Ha ! Beware, unfeeling man : — 
I had oppos'd, had crush'd all human loves, 
And they were wither'd ; thou hast call'd them forth, 

g2 



84 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

Rushing in crowds from memory's thousand cells, 
To scoff at them. Beware ! They will not slumber, 
But sting like scorpions. 

Enter Iphitus. 

Wherefore dost intrude 
On this high conference ? 

iphitus. 
The people cry 
That solemn inquisition should be held 
For Creon's blood ; — else do they fear the gods 
Will visit it on them. 

ISMENE. 

They need not fear. 
It will be well aveng'd. 

IPHITUS. 

To thee, Ismene, 
That which I next must speak, is of dear import ; — 
Wilt hear it in this noble stranger's presence ? 

ISMENE. 

Say on, old man. 

IPHITUS. 

From the old crumbling altar, 
Just as the gates were open'd, breath'd a voice 
In whisper low, yet heard through each recess 
Of Jove's vast temple, bidding us to seek 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 85 

Of thee, Ismene, who the murderer is, 
And summon thee to the same fearful spot, 
To speak it there. 

ISMENE. [To THOAS. 

Athenian ! dost thou hear ? 

THOAS. 

I hear. 

IPHITUS. 

The hostile nations lay aside 
Their quarrel, till this justice to the dead 
Is render'd. Chiefs of each will guard the fane, 
And wait the solemn issue. — In their name, 
And in the mightier name of him whose shrine 
Hath burst long silence, I command thee, queen, 
Thou presently be there. 

ISMENE. 

I shall obey — 
Beside the altar place the regal seat ; 
And there, in state befitting Corinth's queen, 
Til take my place. \_To Thoas. 

Farewell ! Thou wilt be there ! 

THOAS. 

Be sure I will not fail. 

ISMENE. 

'Tis well ! Tis well ! {Exit, 



86 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

IPHITUS. 

Thou saidst thou shouldst attend ? 

THOAS. 

I shall. What more 
Would'st thou have with me ? 

IPHITUS. 

I would ask a band 
Of the most noble of Athenian youth, 
To witness this procedure ; and to lend 
Their conduct, should the murderer stand reveal'd, 
To keep the course of justice unassail'd, 
And line the path of death. 

THOAS. 

All that can make 
The wretch accursM, shall wait him. Let me breathe 
Alone a moment. \_Exit Iphitus. 

How they'll start to see 
The guilty one descend the solemn steps, 
And hang their heads for shame, and turn their eyes 
In mercy from him. \Going, 

Enter C reus a. 

CREUSA. 

For a moment hear me— 
I would not break on thy triumphant hours, 
But for my brother's sake. Do not refuse, 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 87 

For, if he wrong" d thee by a frantic thought, 
There was one ready to defend thy honour 
From slightest taint I 

THOAS. 

What taint ? the breath of infamy 
Spreads o'er my name already ! 

CREUSA. 

Do not ask — 
'Twas a wild thought ; — but there are tongues which make 
As false a charge ; tongues which have power to crush 
The guiltless ! — They have murmur'd that this crime 
Is that of Hyllus ! 

THOAS. 

Hyllus the unsullied ! 

CREUSA. 

I knew that thou would'st say so — that no force 
Of circumstance would weigh in thy pure thought 
Against the beauty of his life. They found him 
Just after day-break, suddenly returned 
From exile, in the chamber of the king, 
Gazing with bloodless aspect on a sight 
Of bloodshed ; — yet thou dost not think 'twas he 
That with a craven hand — 

THOAS. 

O no ! 



88 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

CREUSA. 

And thou 
Wilt plead his cause — wilt save him from the fate 
That threatens his young life ? 

THOAS. 

My own shall first 
Be quench'd ! 

CREUSA. 

The gods repay thee for the word ! 
O brother, brother ! could'st thou wrong this heart 
With one suspicion ? Why dost turn away, 
And shrink and shudder in the warrior's dress, 
As when I thank'd thee for that brother's life, 
At the slave's vest which then, in thy proud thought, 
Debas'd the wearer ? 

THOAS. 

O, I thought so then ! 
Now I would give the treasures of the deep, 
Nay more — the hope of glory — to resume 
Those servile garments with the spotless thoughts 
Of yesterday. 

Enter Messenger. 

MESSENGER. 

My general, Pentheus, asks 
If, by thy sanction, Iphitus requires 
His presence in the temple ? 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 89 

THOAS. 

Pentheus ? — Yes. 

creusa. [Thoas turns away. 

Why in the temple ? wilt not speak ? 



MESSENGER. 



There summons all to some high trial. 



The priest 



CREUSA. 

I see it !— 
They meet to judge my brother. I will fly — 

THOAS. 

Thou must not, lady — in that fearful place, 
Horrors unguess'd at by thy gentle nature 
Will freeze thy youthful blood, that thou shalt pass 
No happy moment more. 

CREUSA. 

And what have I 
To do with happiness ? I am not young, 
For I grew old in moments charg'd with love 
And anguish. Now I feel that I could point 
The murderer out with dreadful skill — could mark 
The livid paleness, read the shrinking eye, 
Detect the empty grasping of the hand 
Renewing fancied slaughter ; — why dost turn 
Thus coldly from me? — Ah ! thou hast forgot 



90 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

The vows which, when in slavery, thou offer' d 

And I was proud to answer — if not, Thoas, 

Once press my hand ; O gods ! he lets it fall ! — 

So withers my last hope — so my poor heart 

Is broken. [Faints. 

thoas. [To Messenger. 

Take her gently in. [Messenger supports her out. 

THOAS. 

One glance. [Looks at her and shudders. 
O that the beauty I have lov'd and worshipp'd 
Should be a thing to shiver me ! — 'Tis just. [Exit. 



END OF ACT IV. 



icbnb i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 91 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The Interior of the Temple of Jupiter the Avenger — Ismene 
seated in the midst, in a Chair of State — Corinthians 
on the right, and Athenians on the left, side of the Tem- 
ple — At the extremity on the right side, Hyllus stand- 
ing — At the extremity of the left, Thoas seated. 

IPHITUS. 

Corinthians and Athenians ! late opposed 

In mortal conflict, dedicated now 

To solemn work of Justice, hear the will 

Of the Avenging Power, beneath whose roof 

Ye stand thus marshalPd. Royal blood hath stain'd 

A palace floor ; — not shed in blazing war, 

But in night's peace; not some hot soldier's blood, 

But the thin current of a frame made sacred 

To Orcus' gentlest arrow. Heaven requires 

Both nations to unite in dealing death 

Upon the slayer, who, unslain, will draw 

Its withering curse on both. In yonder shrine 

Which dim tradition's fearful whispers made 



92 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

A terror to my infancy, a voice, 

Which breath'd fell murmurs to ancestral ears, 

Breaks centuries of silence to pronounce 

The Queen as gifted to direct the shaft 

To the curs'd head ; — and every sign around us 

By which the world invisible, when charged 

With bloody secret, struggles to subdue 

Things visible to organs which may send 

Its meaning to the startled soul, attest 

The duty I assume. — Ismene ! 

ISMENE. 

Priest 
Of Jove, I am attendant to thy summons ; — 
What is thy wish ? 

IPHITUS. 

Sad widow of a king 
Whose feeble life some cruel hand hath stopp'd, 
I do adjure thee, by these hoary hairs, 
That chang'd their hue from raven whilst thou shar'd 
His mansion ; — by celestial powers, who watch 
Our firmness now ; — and by those fearful gods, 
Whom 'tis unblest to mention, lay aside 
All terror, all affection, all remorse, — 
If cause of penitence thou hast, to rend 
The veil of darkness which the murderer wears, 
And give him to his destiny. Begin 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 93 

The solemn strain which shall attune our souls 
To hearken and to execute ! 



[Solemn music. 



IPHITUS. 

Ismene, 
Speak : Dost thou know the slayer ? 

JSMENE. 

Yes! 

IPHITUS. 



Dost thou 



Behold him now ? 

ismene. [Looking wildly round, 
I do not see the faces 
Or know the names of all. Who is the man 
That at the right side of the circle stands ? 

IPHITUS. 

The youth with head erect and cloudless brow ? 
That is the orphan^ Hyllus. 

ISMENE. 

Who is he 
That sits upon the the other side, apart, 
With face averted ? 

[Thoas turns his head suddenly, and looks upon her. 
I behold him now. 
It is a dreadful duty you exact 
From me — a woman. If I speak the name, 
What sentence follows? 



94 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

IPHITUS. 

Death ! 

ISMENE. 

And soon performed ? 

IPHITUS. 

The Fates require that he thou shalt denounce 

As guilty, must be led in silence hence, 

And none behold him after, save his slayers. 

Attend once more ! Thou hast declared thou know'st 

The guilty one ! I ask thee — is he here ? 

ISMENE. 

Gods ! He is. 

IPHITUS. 

Name him ! 

CALCHAS. 

She shudders ! See, — 

1 think she cannot speak ! 

IPHITUS. 

If quivering tongue 
Refuse its office, point the victim out. 

[Ismene rises; turns towards Thoas, who rises, and 

confronts her ; she trembles, pauses, and resumes her seat- 

IPHITUS. 

Thou hast confessM the guilty one is here ; 
Where stands he ? 

QIsmene rises; points to Hyllus, shrieks " There ! " and 
falls back senseless in her chair. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 95 

THOAS. 

'Tis false ! 

[Creusa rushes forward and embraces Hyllus. 

CREUSA. 

Most false ! O murderess ! 
Protect him, noble Thoas ! 

HYLLCJS. 

Peace, my sister: — 
Implore no mortal aid ; let us be patient, 
And suffer calmly what the gods decree. 
My life may satisfy. 

IPHITUS. 

It cannot be ! 
Hold — stir not — breathe not — from that shrine the voice 
Of heaven will answer hers. Do ye not hear ? \_A pause. 
Hark ! — It is voiceless, and the youth is doom'd. 

THOAS. 

Forbear, ye murderous judges; — look upon him ! 
See on his forehead Nature's glorious seal 
Of innocence, outspeaking thousand voices, 
Which shining in the presence of the gods 
Still shows him guiltless. 

IPHITUS. 

Prove it. 

THOAS. 

With my life-blood ! 
O could ye place me in some dizzy cleft 



96 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

Of inmost Thracian hills, when ribb'd with ice, 
To hear from every rocky shelf a howl 
Of wolves arous'd to famine, — I would stand — 
Calm, — O far calmer than I stand, — to wait 
Their fangs, and let my tortur'd sinews' strength 
Attest his cause ; — 'twere nothing — 'twere no pain — 
To what the spirit feels. Thou tallest of curses : 
Beware ! There is no curse with such a power 
As that of guiltless blood pour'd out by mortals 
In the mock'd name of justice. 

hyllus. 

\_To Thoas, aside. 

Thou wilt tell 

Thy secret ; — keep it. Leave me to my doom. 

THOAS. 

Never ! Corinthians, hear me 

ISMENE. 

[Recovering. 
What is this ? 
Why waits the parricide still there? Who dares 
Dispute my sentence ? 

THOAS. 

I! 

ISMENE. 

Be silent. She 
Who most in all the world should have command 
O'er thee, requires thy silence- 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 97 

pentheus. [Stepping forward from 
the Athenian rank. 
By what right 
Dost thou — Queen of the vanquish'd — dare command 
The leader of the conquerors ? 

ISMENE. 

By a mother's. 
£Thoas sinks into his seat — Ismene descends and 
stands beside him. 

ISMENE. 

Athenians — victors ! — 'tis your fitting name, 
By which I joy to greet you. Ye behold 
One whom ye left to suffer, but who boasts 
Your noblest blood. See ! I command my son 
To quit this roof, and leave me to the work 
The gods have destined for me. 

THOAS. 

Stand aside J 
I have a suit I would prefer alone, 
Which may save guilt and sorrow. 

tphitus, \_To Hyllus. 

Lean on me. 
To Thoas.] Be brief. 

HYLLUS. 

I have no need ; yet I will take 
This thy last kindness; for I can accept it 
Without a blush or shudder. 

H 



98 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

[All retire, leaving Thoas and Ismene in front. 

THOAS. 

Why hast heap'd 
Foul crime on crime ? 

ISMENE. 

Son ! there has been no crime 
Except for thee. The love that thou hastscorn\l 
From the heart's long-closed shrine, outwhisper'd fate, 
And saved thee. 

THOAS. 

Saved me ! Thou mayest save me yet ; 
Recall thy sentence. Give me truth and death ! 

ISMENE. 

And own my falsehood ? No ! Let us go hence 
Together. 

THOAS. 

And permit this youth to die ! 
O that some god would mirror to my soul 
Our mortal passage, while the arid sand 
We pace ; the yellow, sunless, sky above us ; 
And forms distort with anguish, which shall meet 
Each vain attempt to be alone, enclose 
The conscious blasters of the earth, till forced 
To gaze upon each other, we behold, 
As in eternal registry, the curse 
Writ in the face of each ! No ; let us pray 
For torture and for peace ! 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 99. 

1SMENE. 

If thou remain, 
And risk dishonour to our house and me, 
The poisonous cave below shall be my home, 
And shelter me for ever ! 

THOAS. 

Thou art brave, 
As fits a matron of heroic line ; 
Be great in penitence^ and we shall meet 
Absolv'd, where I may join my hand to thine, 
And walk in duteous silence by thy side. 

ISMENE. 

And couldst thou love me then ? 

THOAS. 

Love thee ! My mother, 
When thou didst speak that word, the gloom of years 
Was parted, — and I knew again the face 
Which linger 'd o'er my infancy, — so pale, 
So proud, so beautiful ! I kneel again, 
A child, and plead to that unharden'd heart, 
By all the long past hours of priceless love, 
To let my gushing soul pass forth in grace, 
And bless thee in its parting ! 

ISMENE. 

Never ! 
THOAS. [Rising. 



100 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

Haste ere the roof shall fall, and crush the germ 
Of sweet repentance in us ; take thy seat, 
And speak as thy heart dictates — 

[Drawing Ismene towards her seat. 
Hear again ! 

ISMENE. 

Unhand me — rebel son ! Assembled Chiefs, 
Ye called me — I have spoken once — I speak 
No more; make way there! — I must pass alone ! 

{Exit Ismene. 
thoas. 

{Calling to Ismene. 
O ! mother, stay ! She's gone. 

[Sinks into his chair. 

IPHITUS. 

Her word decides, 
Unless the gods disown it. Peace ! the altar 
Is silent ; the last moment presses on us — 
Hyllus, the doom'd, stand forth ! 

creusa. 

O pause ; to thee 

Thoas, I call ; thou know'st him guiltless. 

IPH1TUS. 

Hold! 
No mortal passion can have utterance here, 
When Fate is audible. To yield is ours ; 
Be calm as Hyllus, or forego his hand. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 101 

[Creusa sinks on her knees beside Hyllus; Iphitus lays 
one hand on the head of Hyllus, and raises the other towards 



IPHITUS. 

Dread Power, that bade us to this fane, accept 
The expiation that we offer now, 
And let this blood poured forth atone. 

QThoas suddenly falls from, his seat to the ground. 
Creusa rushes to him, and all surround him. 

CREUSA. 

Gods ! what is this new horror ? 

\_Opening the vest o/Thoas, the dagger falls from it. 

THOAS. 

There! *'Tis done ! 
J Tis well accomplish'd. 

CREUSA. 

Hyllus, go ! 
Brother, no more — for thee he perishes. 

THOAS. 

I will not purchase a last taste of sweetness 

By such estrangement. That steel bears the blood 

Of Creon and his slayer; — how excus'd 

I leave you, generous king, to witness for me. 



102 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

Enter Calchas. 

CALCHAS. 

The queen ! 

THOAS. 

Hold life a moment — what of her ? 

CALCHAS. 

She rush'd, 
With looks none dared to question, to the cave ; 
Paused at its horrid portal ; toss'd her arms 
Wildly abroad ; then drew them to her breast, 
As if she clasp'd a vision'd infant there ; 
And as her eye, uplifted to the crag, 
Met those who might prevent her course, withdrew 
Her backward step amidst the deadly clouds 
Which veil'd her — till the spectral shape was lost, 
Where none dare ever tread to seek for that 
Which was Ismene. 

THOAS. 

Peace be with her ! Pentheus, 
Thy hand ; — let Hyllus reign in honour here ; — 
Convey me to the city of my love ; 
Her future years of glory stream more clear 
Than ever on my soul. O Athens ! Athens ! [Dies. 

HYLLUS. 

Sister ! 

CREUSA. 

Forgive me, brother. 

\_Falls on the neck of Hyllus, 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 103 

HYLLUS. 
Weep there ; 'tis thy home. 
Fate, that has smitten us so young, leaves this — 
That we shall cleave together to the grave. 



THE CURTAIN FALLS. 



THE END. 



BRADBURY AND EVANS, 
UNTERS-EXTRAORDINARY TO THE QUEEN, 
WHITEFRIARS. 






■'£L4-' 






GLENCOE; 



THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 



a ^tagrtig, in $ibe acts. 



BY 
V 



T. N. TALFOURD. 



FIRST REPRESENTED, 23d MAY, 1840. 



SECOND EDITION. 



LONDON: 
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 

MDCCCXL. 



46577 



LONDON : 
BRAUKURY AND EVANS, PRfNTKRS, WHITBFRIARS. 



TO 



LORD JEFFREY. 



WITH GRATEFUL SENSE OF HIS KINDNESS, AND PRIDE IN HIS ESTEEM, 



®U% ^ragtfcp, 



EMBODYING THE FEELINGS OF HAPPY DAYS 

SPENT IN THAT ROMANTIC LAND WHICH HIS DELIGHTFUL SOCIETY 
HAS ENDEARED, 

IS (WITH HIS PERMISSION) RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 



T. N. TALFOURD. 



ADVERTISEMENT 
TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



Since this Play was prepared for the press, it has under- 
gone the ordeal of representation ; and, having avowed 
myself its author, I feel it right to state the circumstances 
under which it was written and " commended to the stage.'" 
It was composed in the last vacation at Glandwr, in the 
most beautiful part of North Wales, chiefly for the purpose 
of embodying the feelings which the grandest scenery in the 
Highlands of Scotland had awakened, when I visited them in 
the preceding autumn. I had no distinct intention at that 
time of seeking for it a trial on the stage; but, having almost 
unconsciously blended with the image of its hero the figure, 
the attitudes, and the tones of the great actor, whom I had 
associated for many years with every form of tragedy, I could 
not altogether repress the hope that I might one day enjoy 
the delight of seeing him give life and reality to my imper- 
fect conceptions. After my return to London the Play was 
printed, merely for the purpose of being presented to my 
friends; but when only two or three copies had been presented, 
I was encouraged to believe that it would one day be acted, 
and I immediately suppressed the edition. I found that my 



vi ADVERTISEMENT. 

friend, Mr. Charles Dickens, — whose generous devotion 
to my interests amidst his own triumphant labors I am 
most happy thus to boast, — had shown it to Mr. Macready 
as the work of a stranger ; that it had been read by him 
with deep interest ; and that he had determined to recom- 
mend its production as the first novelty of the present Hay- 
market season. Having been charged, on the representation 
of " Ion," with obtaining an unfair advantage over other 
dramatic authors, by the previous distribution of the Play, 
(although, at the time of that distribution, I had not the 
slightest idea that it would ever be acted,) I resolved wholly 
to abstain from a course which might justly involve me in 
such a censure ; and the only use made of any of the printed 
copies, was to facilitate the rehearsals. I also determined, if 
possible, to avoid another charge — that I was indebted for 
such success as I had obtained to the partial applause of 
friends ; and, as the Play had been accepted without my 
name to aid it, so I wished that it should take its fair chance 
for success or failure, at the hands of an audience wholly 
without bias. This wish was accomplished ; for, with the ex- 
ception of two or three friends who happened to have received 
copies before the occasion for secrecy arose, my most intimate 
friends and relations were wholly unacquainted with my con- 
nexion of the announcement of Saturday evening. When the 
name of the author was communicated to Mr. Macready, he 
was enjoined to keep it secret ; and it was only a day or two 
before the performance that an accident caused it even to be 



ADVERTISEMENT. vii 

suspected at the theatre. Whatever, therefore, may have 
been the degree of success which attended its first represen- 
tation, it was attained— not only without the issue of orders, 
but without the aid of those genial influences which 
friendship delights to exert on such an occasion. 

As Mr. Macready has regarded this play in two aspects — 
at the time when he first approved it as the work of a 
stranger, and during its preparation for the Stage as the 
production of one of his oldest friends — so I have to thank 
him in each character. The suggestions which he made to 
render it better fitted for representation were so important, 
that it was found necessary to reprint the whole ; and the 
few who have seen the original will perceive that they have 
essentially improved the work as a dramatic poem, as well 
as advanced its interest on the Stage. Of his representation 
of the principal character, I cannot speak in adequate terras 
of gratitude ; — but those who know the pleasure which an 
author feels in finding the images of his solitary walks among 
rocks and streams rendered palpable to the senses and affec- 
tions of others by the power of a great artist, may guess the 
feelings with which I witnessed his performance. To all 
the Ladies and Gentlemen engaged in the representation, I 
also beg to offer my cordial thanks for the zeal with which 
they did more than justice to parts which, in several 
instances, were unworthy of their powers; and to Mr. 
Webster, as Manager as well as Actor. 

Under ordinary circumstances, I should have felt it 



viu ADVERTISEMENT. 

impertinent to intrude on the public the statement I have 
made of personal details and motives ; but as I am conscious 
that this Play has been produced at a time when dramatic 
productions superior to it in many of the essentials of that 
species of composition have recently issued from the press, I 
think it due to the management of the Haymarket Theatre, 
and to Mr. Macready, to state the exact truth respecting it. 
The authors of some of these dramas cannot reasonably 
complain, as they have not chosen to adapt their works to the 
purposes of acting, that they have not been acted ; but there 
are others who naturally and earnestly desire to participate in 
the fascinations of the acted drama, whose wishes I should 
rejoice to see fulfilled. Two obstacles, however, subsist, 
which, while they continue, must confine the opportunities 
of doing justice to dramatic authors within narrow limits — 
the dearth of competent actors to represent their works, 
and the monopoly which restricts the number of theatres 
entitled to give them scope. Whether the removal of the 
last difficulty would tend speedily to obviate the first, is 
matter of conjecture; but the experiment ought to be, 
and must be tried. The claims of our dramatic literature to 
a free stage are becoming every day more urgent with the 
development of its rich resources ; and they cannot long be 
so advanced and so supported in vain. 

T. N. T. 

London, 25th May y 1840. 



PREFACE 



It is singular that the terrible incident which deepens 
the impression made on all tourists by the most awful pass 
of the Highlands, should not have been long ago made 
the subject of poetry or romance. Although the mas- 
sacre which casts so deep a stain on the government of 
King William the Third, may well have been regarded as 
too shocking for dramatic effect, unless presented merely 
in the remote back-ground of scenic action, it is surely 
matter of surprise that it should not have been selected 
as a subject for Scottish romance by the great novelist 
who has held up its authors to just execration in his 
" History of Scotland."" A deed so atrocious, perpetrated 
towards the close of the seventeenth century, under the 
sanction of a warrant, both superscribed and subscribed by 
the king, is an instance of that projection of the savage 
state into a period of growing civilisation which enables 
the novelist to blend the familiar with the fearful — u new 
manners" with "the pomp of elder days" — the fading 
superstition of dim antiquity with the realities which his- 
tory verifies. To him, the treachery by which it was 
preceded — the mixture of ferocity and craft by which it 
was planned and executed— the fearful contrast between 
the gay reciprocation of social kindness, and the deadly 



x PREFACE. 

purpose of the guests marking out their hosts for slaughter 
— present opportunities for the most picturesque contrasts, 
the most vivid details, the most thrilling suggestions, 
which are not within the province of the dramatist. The 
catastrophe has also a far-reaching interest, as showing 
the extermination of one of the most sturdy and austere, 
although one of the smallest, of the Highland clans ; for, 
being the most fearful of the series of measures by which 
the little sovereignties of the Highland Chiefs were abo- 
lished, it may well represent their general extinction, and 
the transfer of the virtues and the violence they sheltered 
from action to memory. It occurred in a scene, too, 
which, for gloomy grandeur, is not only unequalled, but 
unapproached — perhaps, unresembled — by any other pass 
in Britain ; and its solemn features, especially when con- 
templated beneath heavy clouds and amidst rolling mists, 
harmonise with the story of the horrors which were wrought 
among them. Considering, therefore, the delight which 
Sir Walter Scott felt in animating the noblest scenery of his 
country with its most romantic traditions, it is difficult to 
account for his abstinence from a theme which, if adopted 
by him, would have been for ever sacred from the touch 
of others.* 

* Two passages only, as far as the Author is aware, in the poetry and fiction of 
Sir Walter Scott contain allusions to the massacre at Glencoe ' T but they show how 
intensely he felt the atrocities committed under the apparent sanction at least of the 
government of King William. The following stanzas are quoted by himself from 
his own poems, in a note to his history : 

" The hand that mingled in the meal, 
At midnight drew the felon steel, 
And gave the host's kind breast to feel 
Meed for his hospitality ! 



PREFACE, xi 

In endeavouring to present, in a dramatic form, the feel- 
ings which the scene and its history have engendered, it has 
been found necessary to place in the foreground domestic 
incidents and fictitious characters ; only to exhibit the chief 
agents of the treachery, so far as essential to the progress 
of the action ; and to allow the catastrophe itself rather 
to be felt as affecting the fortunes of an individual family, 
than exhibited in its extended horrors. The subject presents 
strong temptations to mere melo-dramatic effect : it has been 
the wish of the author to resist these as much as possible; 
but he can scarcely hope with entire success. 

The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand, 
At midnight arm'd it with the hrand 
That hade destruction's flames expand 
Their red and fearful blazonry. 
" Then woman's shriek was heard in vain ; 
Nor infancy's unpitied pain, 
More than the warrior's groan, could gain 

Respite from ruthless butchery ! 
The winter wind that whistled shrill, 
The snows that night that cloak'd the hill, 
Though wild and pitiless, had still 

Far more than Southron clemency." 
The following passage occurs in the tale of the " Highland Widow," in 
Elspat's remonstrance to her son on his enlistment:—" Go, put your head 
under the belt of one of the race of Dermid, whose children murdered — yes," 
she added, with a wild shriek, " murdered your mother's fathers in their 
peaceful dwellings in Glencoe ! Yes," she again exclaimed with a wilder and 
shriller scream, " I was then unborn, but my mother has told me; and I 
attended to the voice of my mother ; — well I remember her words '.—They came 
in peace, and were received in friendship ; and blood and fire arose, and screams 
and murder ! " 

" Mother," answered Hamish, mournfully, but with a decided tone, " all that 
I have thought over — there is not a drop of the blood of Glencoe on the noble 
hand of Barcaldine ; — with the unhappy house of Glenlyon the curse remains, 
and on them God hath avenged it." 



xii PREFACE. 

In the outline of those incidents, which are historical, 
the Author has not ventured on any material deviation from 
the story, as related in the Fifty-eighth Chapter of Sir 
Walter Scott's " History of Scotland," where it will be 
found developed with all the vividness of that master-spirit 
of narrative. The rash irresolution of Mac Ian, in deferring 
his submission till the last moment ; his journey to Fort- 
William in the snow-storm ; his disappointment in finding 
he had sought the wrong officer; his turning thence, and 
passing near his own house, to Inverary, where he arrived 
after the appointed day ; the acceptance of his oath by the 
sheriff of Argyle, and his return to enforce the allegiance 
of his clan to King William ; the arrival of Glenlyon and 
his soldiers in the glen ; their entertainment for fifteen days 
by the Macdonalds ; the cold hypocrisy by which they veiled 
their purpose when urged to its execution by Major Duncan- 
son ; and the partial execution of the murderous orders ; are 
all real features of " an ower true tale." The only devia- 
tions of which the Author is conscious are, the represent- 
ing blaster Macdonald, the younger son of Mac Ian, as a 
lad, instead of the husband of Glenlyon' s niece; and that 
niece as fostered by the widow and son of a chief of the 
clan, once the rival of Mac Ian; and in substituting, for 
the foul traits of treachery which Sir Walter Scott imputes 
to Glenlyon, the incident of his procuring a young officer in 
his own regiment, but of the clan of the Macdonalds, to 
place the soldiers in the tracks leading from the valley 
they were commanded to surround. The character of 
Halbert Macdonald, and the incidents of his story and con- 
duct, are entirely fictitious. 



PREFACE. xiii 

As the chief interest which the Author can hope that any 
will find in perusing this drama, will consist in its bringing 
to their minds the features of the stupendous glen to which 
it refers, he may be permitted to state, that the spot where 
the tower and chapel of Halbert are supposed to be placed, 
is beneath the mountain summit called the Pap of Glencoe; 
towards which a huge gully leads, or seems to lead, from 
the bed of the river, and where, enclosed amidst the black 
rocks, in the darkness of which that gully is lost, far above 
the glen may be the site of such a rude dwelling. The 
house of Mac Ian is supposed to be — where, no doubt, it 
was — in the lower and wider part of the glen, where, by 
the side of the Cona, the wild myrtle grows in great pro- 
fusion, about two miles to the south east of Loch Leven. In 
other respects, as far as vivid impressions, not verified for 
some time, enabled the Author, he has endeavoured to recall 
to the recollection of those who have visited Glencoe the 
subsisting features of its scenery ; although he cannot 
place implicit confidence in those impressions, when he finds 
a writer like Pennant asserting of the glen, that " its moun- 
tains rise on each side perpendicularly to a great height 
from a flat narrow bottom ; so that, in many places, they 
seem to hang over, and make approaches as they aspire 
towards each other." To his memory, Glencoe seems not 
a narrow defile, as this description would import, but a huge 
valley between mountains of rock, receding from each other 
till a field of air of several miles' breadth lies between their 
summits : of which, the last time he saw it, three young 
eagles, rising from the coarse heather at the head of the 
pass, near King's-house, took and kept delighted possession. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Mac Ian, Chief of the Clan of the Macdonalds~\ 

of Glencoe J 

John Macdonald, Eldest Son of Mac Ian 

Alaster Macdonald, Youngest Son of) 
Mac Ian— a youth ) 

Halbert Macdonald, Nephew of Mac Ian ) 
— Son of a deceased Chief . . . S 

Henry Macdonald, Younger Brother of} 
Halbert . . . . . . . S 

Angus, } Old Men of the Clan of the C 

Donald, ) Macdonalds of Glencoe . . C 

Capt. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, com- -\ 
monly called Glenlyon, Captain of a de- > 
tachment of the Earl of ArgyWs Regiment J 

Lindsay, an Officer under Glenlyon! $ command . 

Drummond, a Serjeant in the Regiment . 

Kenneth, an Old Servant of Mac Ian 

A Catholic Priest 



Mr. Webster. 
Mr. J. Webster. 

Miss P. Horton. 
Mr. Macready. 

Mr. Howe. 

Mr. Santer. 
Mr. Gallot. 

Mr. Phelps. 

Mr. W. Lacy. 

Mr. Worrell. 
Mr. Waldron. 
Mr. Gotjgh. 



Lady Macdonald, Mother of Halbert and ) 

(• Mrs. W t arner. 
Henry ) 

Helen Campbell, an Orphan protected by} „„ TT „ 

r , ™ , ,,\r- y,,"-, ( Miss Helen Faucit. 

Lady Macdonald, Niece to Glenlyon . ) 

Clansmen, Officers, Soldiers, &c. 



Scene — Glencoe, and the neighbouring banks of Loch Leven. 

Time — January, 16S9. 

The first Two Acts occupy one night and the following morning. 
There is an interval of a fortnight between the action of the Second and 
Third Acts ; — the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Acts comprise the action of 
the three succeeding days. 



GLENCOE; 



THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall in the House of Mac Ian in Glencoe. 

Midnight. — A turf fire burning. — Storm heard without. — 
John Macdonald discovered sitting pensively at a table; 
Al aster pacing the room. 

JOHN. 

Let me entreat you, Alaster, to sleep ; 

Three nights of feverish waking, at your age, 

May spoil you for a watchman ; for your nerves, 

Undisciplined by care, throb many hours, 

While those of elder and sedater spirits, 

Ruled by the time, count one. Rest those slight limbs 

On yonder couch of heather ; — I would pledge 

My word to rouse you at the first faint tread 

Which may announce your father ; but 'twere needless ; 

B 



2 GLENCOE; OR, [act 

In deepest slumber it will stir your heart, 
And rouse you to his arms. 

ALASTER. 

How can I sleep ? 
How can you wish that I should sleep, when night 
Succeeds to night, and still the unconquer'd wind, 
Laden with snow and hailstones, dashes round us, 
As if in scorn of Highlanders, content 
To yield the fastnesses in which it held 
Joint empire with our sires ; and still the fear 
That it hath dealt its vengeance on the head 
We love increases, — with the time o'erpast 
For sad and shameful travel ? 

JOHN. 

Alaster, 
I must not hear you blend those words with aught 
Our sire resolved. You did not guess the war 
Of fierce emotions that, within his frame 
Unshaken, raged, as time brought nigh the hour 
When he must plight his faith to England's King, 
Or to the power of unrelenting foes 
Yield up his clansmen. While the sky was clear, 
With wavering purpose he inclined to wait 
His doom at home ; but when the snow-storm hurl'd 
Its icy arrows through the hills, the woes 
Of roofless desolation all would share 
Shriek'd at his heart, and peril lent a show 
Of honour to the journey, which had else 
Seem'd shameful; — so he girt him to the task 
As to a doom'd man's office. If we lose 
All else, we will preserve our household laws ; 
Nor let the licence of these fickle times 
Subvert the holy shelter which command 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

Of fathers, and undoubting faith of sons, 
Rear'd for our shivering virtues. You o'erstep 
The province of a Highland chieftain's son ; 
You must not judge jour father. 

ALASTER. 

It is true, 
And I submit me to your chiding : still 
'Tis hard to own new tyranny ; to shrink 
Before its threats ; to feel the Highland heart 
Shrivel and die within its case, nor strike 
One blow for ancient sovereignty and honour. 

JOHN. 

I grant that it is hard ; but if the blow 

Be without hope, 'tis nobler to forbear, 

Nor buy a glorious moment with the blood 

Of trusting clansmen. Would you know what virtue 

Endurance may possess, when action fails, 

Look at our cousin Halbert! — To your eye, 

Whose memory reaches not his fiery boyhood, 

He seems distinguish'd only by that charm 

Of courtesy which hearted kindness sheds 

Through simplest manners, and an aspect grave 

Which these huge rocks impress upon the port 

Of him who loves them. You have often seen 

Our father to his greeting make return 

Of gibe or withering silence, which he bears 

In gentlest mood ; — yet once his soul was passion 'd 

With wilder rage than even your ardent youth 

Can guess ; but I err now ; for I o'erstep 

An old injunction not to tell his story, 

Till manhood fitted you to hear it. 

ALASTER. 

Manhood ! 

b 2 



4 GLENCOE ; OR, [act i. 

JOHN. 

I did not mean to ruffle you. Your years, 
Though few, have been instructed by distress, 
And I admit your title to the cares 
And knowledge happier fortunes had deferrM. 
Sit, then, and listen. Halbert's father long 
With ours contested who might claim descent 
From eldest line of ancestry, and right 
To chieftainship and lands. Fierce conflicts held 
The claim in doubt, till old Macdonald fell 
Stricken for death ; — then, conscious that his sons, 
Halbert, the eldest-born, about your age, 
And Henry, a slight stripling, scarcely twelve, 
Could ill sustain the quarrel, or protect 
Their mother in her sorrow, sent the priest 
Who shrived him, to entreat his rival's hand 
In peace, — with offer to resign his claims : 
So that the blacken'd tower in which he lay, 
Its ruin'd chapel, the small niche of rock 
In which they are embraced as in a chasm 
Rent "neath our loftiest peak by ancient storm, 
And some scant pastures on Loch Leven's side, 
Were ratified as Halbert's. To this pact 
I was a witness, and the scene lives now 
Before me. — In a room where flickering light 
Strove through the narrow openings of huge walls, 
On a low couch, Macdonald's massive form 
Lay stretch'd ; — with folded arms my father stood 
Awed by the weakness of the foe so late 
His equal ; the expiring warrior raised 
His head, and catching from the eager looks 
Of the wan lady who had wiped the dew 
Of anguish from his forehead, argument 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

To quell all scruple, solemnly rehearsed 

The terms, and, as his dying prayer, implored 

Halbert to keep them. 

ALASTER. 

So he yielded ? 

JOHN. 

No; 
One flush of crimson from the hair which curPd 
Crisply around his brows, suffused his face 
And throat outspread with rage; — he slowly raised 
His dirk ; and, though the agony which swelFd 
His heaving breast prevented speech, we read 
In his dilated nostril, eyes that flash'd 
With fire that answer'd to the uplifted steel, 
And lips wide-parted for the sounds which strove 
In vain to reach their avenue, a vow 
Of never-resting warfare ; — so he stood 
Rigid as marble, of his mother's face 
Turn'd on him from her knees — of the wild fear 
Which struck his gamesome brother sad, — of all 
Unconscious. While we waited for his words, 
Another voice, from the deep shade that gloom'd 
Beyond the death-bed, came; — and midst it, stood 
The squalid figure of a woman, wrought 
Beyond the natural stature as she stretch'd 
Her withered finger towards the youth, and spoke — 
" Halbert, obey ! The hour which sees thee rule 
O'er the Macdonalds of Glencoe shall briny 
7 error and death." — Then glided from the room. 
He did not start, but as his ears drank in 
The sounds, his colour vanish'd from his face ; 
The light forsook his eyes; his nerveless hand 
Released the dirk ; he sank on trembling knees, 



6 GLENCOE; OR, I act i. 

Beside the couch, and with a child's soft voice 
Said, " I obey" — and bow'd his head to take 
His father's blessing, who fell back and died 
When he had murmurM it. The youth arose 
Sedate, and turning to his mother, said, 
" I live for you." Since then he has remain'd 
What you have known him. 

ALASTER. 

What was she who wrought 
This awful change ? 

JOHN. 

Have you not heard of Moina? 
Although she has not since that day been seen 
Within our vale, her awful figure glared 
On the remotest infancy of men 
Who now are reckon'd old. Her age alone 
Would make the obscurest thread of human life 
Drawn out, though many births and deaths of Hope, 
A thing to tremble at; — 'tis said she gazed 
On that best piece of heavenly workmanship— 
Our Mary's beauty, when the shrivelFd Queen 
Of England foully shattered it ; some crime 
Or mighty sorrow now forgotten drew 
Her steps into deep solitude. Preserved 
By her majestic bearing from the grasp 
Of law, she owns the power to pierce the veil 
Of mortal vision ; — the sole tie she knows 
To this world is a kindred with our race, 
From which she sprung; — yet only giant griefs 
Borne or foreshadow'd have the power to stir 
Her dull affections, or to invite her steps 
From the rude hovel where she dwells alone 
Far on the mountain plain, within the round 






scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 7 

Of stones which point Death's ancient victories 
O'er nameless heroes. Whether earnest thought 
And long communion with the hills whose moan 
Foretells the tempest, taught her first to break 
The bondage of the Present, or worse aid 
Hath given her might, I cannot tell ; pray Heaven 
That you may never cross her ! 

ALASTER. 

Her strange words 
Fell lightly on the younger son, whose acts 
Of boyish prowess wrought in frolic mood 
I once admired ; — has anything been heard 
Of that gay scapegrace ? 

JOHN. 

No; — he could not brook 
The dulness of his home, though not uncheer'd 
By female grace ; for there the lovely child 
Of brave Hugh Campbell, whom Macdonald loved, 
Spite of the hatred that he bore his clan, 
Has, from the opening of her youth's first blossom 
Found shelter ; — and no fairer Scotland boasts 
Than Helen Campbell. If young Henry lives, 
Be sure you '11 find him on the sunny side 
Of Fortune's favour. — Hark ! The Cona's roar ! 
It bursts the icy chains which long have held it, 
And riots in its freedom. 

ALASTER. 

'Twill destroy 
The slender bridge below us. Should our Father 
Approach that way ! — I will not linger thus. 

JOHN. 

He bade me wait him here. Ho ! Kenneth ! (calling.) Run 



8 GLENCOE ; OR, --{act i. 

Enter Kenneth. 
Swift to the bridge, it may be yours to save 
Your chief. [Exit Kenneth. 

His journey will not lie that way, 
Yet horrors thicken round us. 'Mid the roar 
Methinks I hear a step — it comes — alas ! 
'Tis not Mac Ian's. 

Enter Halbert Macdonald. 

Halbert, I have scarce 
The power to bid you welcome as I ought ; 
We are sad watchers for our sire's return, 
And almost blame the footsteps of a friend 
Which might be his. 

HALBERT. 

I came to ask of him ; — 
For having cross'd him on Loch Leven's shore 
Three nights ago, scarce two miles hence, I heard 
With wonder the report which found its way 
To our lone dwelling but to-night, that still 
He was abroad. 

ALASTER. 

Are you assured 'twas he ? 
Did he address you ? 

HALBERT. 

Alaster, you know 
How rarely he will grace me with a word; 
But this is not a season for a thought, 
Save of his peril. I had made my way, 
Breasting the hurricane, in hope to lead 
Our herd to shelter ere the night should add 
Dark terrors to the storm : in blackening mist 
I saw a mantle flicker ; then the hairs 



scene i.J THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

Of a white head, which stream'd along the wave 

Of flying vapour ; swift I ran to aid 

Some aged wanderer's steps, and cried aloud. 

He fled before me, till my fleeter limbs 

O'ertook him ; then he faced me ; — 'twas your father ! 

A look, in which strong anguish baffled scorn, 

He hVd upon me ; waved his arm aloft, 

In action that forbade pursuit, and took 

The pathway to Loch Etive. I believed 

He wish'd but to avoid me, and that done, 

He would turn homeward. 

ALASTER. 

If indeed 'twas he 
And not a dreadful shadow of his mould, 
He fears to meet the faces of his friends 
After his oath to William. 

HALBERT. 

If he lives, 
That oath is past ; and being past, dear cousin, 
Let it not prompt a word which may add pangs 
To a brave spirit's shame. At earliest dawn 
111 search each cavern'd nook within our glen, 
Nor leave a crevice which the smallest rill 
Has hollow'd, unexplored. I know them well : 
So haply I may find the reverend chief 
Crouch 'd in some narrow cave, — his stately head 
In resignation bow'd upon his staff, 
And waiting, without struggle, the last chill 
Of slowly freezing death .; — may lead him home, 
And win one cordial pressure of his hand, 
To speak he owns me true. 

JOHN. 

A footstep ! — hush ! 



10 GLENCOE; OR, [act 

Enter Angus. 

JOHN. 

Angus at such an hour ! 

ANGUS. 

A fearful summons 
From a shrill voice, between the tempest's gusts, 
CalPd me to meet my chief. 

JOHN. 

Would he were here ! 
He comes even now {listening). No. 

Enter Donald. 

JOHN. 

This is terrible ! 

DONALD. 

Is not Mac Ian here ? I came to meet him ; 
Roused from my bed by such a piercing cry 
As rarely syllables a human name ! 

JOHN. 

You hear ! 

Other old Clansmen enter. 

JOHN. 

I ask not why you come : I know 
Some mortal tidings linger on the storm, 
And ye are here to share them. Let them come : 
We can but die ! 

HALBERT. 

Heaven fit us to endure! 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 11 

JOHN. 

Another step ; I know it well ! — 'tis his ! 
Pray you withdraw awhile ; but go not hence. 

[Halbert and the Clansmen retire to the end 
of the Room. 

Enter Mac Ian. 

MAC IAN. 

Still watching ? — you too, Alaster ? What care 
My absence must have brought you ! My dear sons, 
Do not despise your father, who returns 
The subject of King William. 

JOHN. 

All you do 
Must have our reverence. Let me bring you wine. 

MAC IAN. 

No ; it would choke me. I must drain no more 
The goblet to assuage the patriot glow 
Of love and pride ; I may not drink to Him 
Whose ancestry my own revered ; and wine 
Were poison to me now. 

ALASTER. 

Is all then past ? 

MAC IAN. 

It is ; and sad as was the task, the way 

Was worthy of its end. When through deep snow 

I reach'd Fort- William, nerved to take the oath 

Before the General, — I was told his office 

Did not allow him to record it : thence 

I was compelPd to struggle through the storm 

To Inverary, where the Sheriff deign'd, 

Although beyond the appointed time, to seal 



12 GLENCOE; OR, [act 

The degradation of our race. I pass'd 
Within two miles of this beloved home, 
And dared not turn to it. 

halbert — (speaking to Angus behind). 

'Twas there I met him. 

MAC IAN. 

Who spoke ? Is he who track'd me in the storm 

Come as a spy, upon my sad return, 

To gaze upon my sorrow ? Let him face me ! 

halbert — {coming forward). 
I came not to offend you. 

JOHN. 

No ; — he came 
In terror for your safety. 

mac ian. 
Said he so ? 
Nay, Halbert, look yourself; scant powers are left 
To grace the seat you wait for, yet my son 
Shall fill it after me. Declare your wish 
To rend it from us ; — 'twere a nobler course 
Than that you follow. 

halbert. 

Sir, you do me wrong ; 
I boast no virtue when I claim content 
With that which you have left me ; — would not change 
My naked turret, in its mountain hold, 
Reach'd by the path along whose rugged steeps 
Discord and envy climb not, for the fields 
Rich Inverary in its scornful groves 
Embosoms ; and to me the mouldering walls 
Of its small chapel wear the glory yet 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 13 

Of consecration which they took from prayers 
Of the first teachers, though a thousand storms 
Have drench'd and shaken them. Forgive me, sir: 
I have a patrimony which forbids 
Envy of yours. 

MAC IAN. 

You hear — he taunts me now ; — 
Do you believe that show of meekness cheats 
A soldier's eye ? — that we esteem your thoughts 
Subdued to habits of a herdsman's life, 
And all the passion and the pride of youth 
In these o'ercome ? 

HALBERT. 

I strive to conquer them, 
And not in vain. You think that strange. If day 
Illumed the glen, I'd show you, from your door, 
A shapeless rock, which, thence observed, presents 
No mark to give it preference o'er the mass 
Of mountain ruin ; — yet from upward gaze 
Of the slow traveller, as he drags his steps 
Through yon dark pass, it shuts the mighty gorge, 
Above with all its buttresses ; its lake, 
Black with huge shadows ; and its jagged heights, 
Which tempt the arrowy lightning from its track 
To sport with kindred terrors. So, by grace 
Of Heaven, each common object we regard 
With steadiness, can veil the dark abodes 
Of terrible Remembrance at whose side 
Fierce Passions slumber, and supply to Hope 
The place of airiest pinnacles it shades. 
Thus, sir, it is with me. 

JOHN. 

Believe it, father ; 
Indeed 'tis true. 



14 GLENCOE; OR, [act i. 

MAC IAN. 

Perhaps I do you wrong ; 
We'll speak of this to-morrow, when I meet 
The eldest clansmen, and with shame, enforce 
Their new allegiance. 

JOHN. 

They await you now. 

MAC IAN. 

Here ? — I must face them ; — tell them to approach. 

[Mac Ian takes his seat ; — John beckons the 
old Clansmen, who surround it. 

MAC IAN. 

I have cold welcome for you, friends ; you come 
To share the wreck of the Macdonalds. I, 
The most unhappy of the race, have been 
To make the final sacrifice. I felt 
Resistance, with our deaths, would glut the hate 
Of Scottish minions bribed by England's gold ; 

And I have sworn relate it for me, John, 

I cannot tell it ! 

JOHN. 

To secure your lives 
My father perilPd his ; — and yesternight, 
At Inverary, pledged our faith to William. 

Enter Kenneth wildly. 

KENNETH. 

Too late ! too late ! 

HALBERT. 

What mean those awful words ? 
Is all his anguish vain ? 

kenneth (seeing mac ian). 
No, he is safe ! 
Why start ye ? — though the bridge is swept away, 
Our chief's unharm'd. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 15 

HALBERT. 

And thus you welcome him, 
With words which freeze the soul ! You meant no ill ; 
Yet death is in your words. 

kenneth (kneeling to mac ian). 

Forgive me. 

MAC IAN. 

Rise; 

I'm arm'd for any ill, unless it fall 

On these, my life's last comforts. 

\_Looking on John and Alaster. 

HALBERT. 

Sir, farewell ! 
When peril comes — as come it will — regard 
The meanest clansman's life less cheap than his 
Whose loyalty you wrong. [Exit Halbert. 

mac ian {to the Clansmen). 

Good night, my friends. 
[Exeunt Kenneth and Clansmen. 

Come near me, children ; — I can scarcely bear 
To look into your faces. You forgive me ? 

JOHN. 

Forgive ! We honour and revere you. Bless us ! 

[John and Alaster kneel, one on each side 
of Mac Ian's chair. He lays his hands 
on their heads. 

MAC IAN. 

There; — we are knotted now to live or die. 

[The Drop Scene falls. 

END OF ACT I. 



1(» GLENCOE; OR, [act n. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of Halbert's Tower. 

Time — Daybreak . 

Enter Lady Macdonald with a Letter, followed by Drum- 
mo nd, in the uniform of the Earl of Ar gyles Regiment, 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Thanks for your pains. Let me devour again 

The precious characters. {Reads.) " I come, dear mother, 

Raised to high favour and command, to take 

My quarters in your vale." The morn's faint light 

Had scarce enabled eyes less glad than mine 

To read ; — they are dazzled now. \_To the Soldier.] Pray 

you go in : 
We have poor entertainment to bestow, 
But our best cheer is yours. 

DRUMMOND. 

I must return 
Upon the instant ; shall I bear your answer ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

There is no need ; he speeds ; his eager wish, 
If I may judge it by my own, will add 
Wings to his swiftness. Yet a moment stay ; 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 17 

Know you the writer of these lines, my son, — 
Is he of gallant port ? 

SOLDIER. 

Our regiment's pride, 
And first in favour of Glenlyon. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Take 
A happy mother's thanks. 

\_Exit Soldier. 
I shall behold 
A hero whom I parted from a child ; 
Trace in his lineaments the hints which gave 
Sweet promise of his manhood ; shall enjoy 
In one rich hour the pleasures which are spread 
Through years to her who watches the degrees 
Of youth's expanding brightness. Where is Halbert ? 
Where Helen ? She will laugh with wildest glee 
To find her little playmate a plumed soldier, 
And share his mirth. No gaiety like his 
Has cheer'd her since he left us. She is here. 

Enter Helen Campbell. 

HELEN. 

So early raised to meet the morning's chill ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I feel no chill ; the ecstacy within me 

Clothes all without with summer ; you shall share 

In joy which seldom visits these old walls. 

HELEN. 

O say not so ; — there's not a day but bears 
Its blessing on its light. If Nature doles 
Her gifts with sparing hand, their rareness sheds 

c 



18 GLENCOE; OR, [act n. 

Endearments her most bounteous mood withholds 

From greenest valleys. The pure rill which casts 

Its thread of snow-like lustre o'er the rock, 

Which seems to pierce the azure sky, connects 

The thoughts of earth with heaven, while mightier floods 

Roar of dark passions. The rare sunbeam wins 

For a most slight existence human care, 

While it invests some marble heap with gleams 

Of palaced visions. If the tufts of broom 

Whence Fancy weaves a chain of gold, appear, 

On nearer visitation, thinly strewn, 

Each looks a separate bower, and offers shade 

To its own group of fairies. The prized harebell 

W r astes not its dawning azure on a bank 

Rough and confused with loveliness, but wears 

The modest story of its gentle life 

On leaves that love has tended ; nay, the heath, 

Which, slowly from a stinted root, unfolds 

Pale lilac blossoms, — image of a maid 

Rear'd in a solitude like this, — is bless'd, 

Instead of sharing with a million flowers 

One radiant flush, — in offering its faint bloom 

To fondest eyes. Say not again, dear lady, 

That joy but seldom visits these old walls. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Not while they shelter you, my lovely child ; 
But new joy waits us ; you have not forgotten 
Our careless Henry ? 

HELEN. 

No ! — forgotten Henry ! 
But he has long forgotten us ; no message 
Has told us of his welfare, since he found us 
Too sad for his companions. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 19 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Pardon in him, 
As I do, young ambition's upward gaze, 
Which, nVd upon the future, cannot turn 
To glance upon the distant and the past. 

HELEN. 

Is it indeed so, madam ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You are grave now — 
You who are joyous in our weariest days 
Be glad ; for Henry will this day return 
To charm us with his merriment. 

HELEN. 

To-day ? 
Henry return to-day ! Speak once again 
That blessed news. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

He comes to-day, upraised 
In Argyle's regiment to command, and graced 
With favour of Glenlyon, 

HELEN. 

Of my uncle ? 
I think of him unseen, as a stern soldier 
Who, living to obey and to command, 
Allows no impulses but these which guide 
Along the rocky, strait, untinted channel, 
That discipline has hewn. If Henry wins 
Favour from him, he'll win the hearts of all. 
Comes he alone ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

His troop is quarter'd with us, 
To taste in peace our simple Highland fare, 

c 2 



20 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 

And feel our Highland welcome. But I long 
For Halbert's presence; though he does not love 
The clansmen of Argyle, he must rejoice 
In Henry's fortune. 

HELEN. 

He has not returnM 
Since, yestere'en, he left us to inquire 
The issue of Mac Ian 's journey. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You 
Alarm me; — not returnM ? 

HELEN. 

Fear not for Halbert ; 
You know he loves to wander at all hours, 
And, ever present to himself, will rule 
His course in safety. Is that he ? The step 
Is hurried ; yet it should be his. 

Enter Halbert greatly agitated; — throws himself into a seat. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My son, 
What ails you ? Speak ! 

HALBERT. 

I will — soon — presently ; 
Ha! Mother! Helen! safe; — thank Heaven ! Has nothing 
To-night appalVd you ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Nothing. 

HALBERT. 

That is strange. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

What has befall'n us ? Is Mac Ian dead ? 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 21 

H ALBERT. 

No ; he survives ; he has only lost the thing 
Which makes life precious ! — Ruin yawns for all — 
Poor fated clansmen ! I have heard again 
Old Moina's voice. 

JADY MACDONALD. 

Her voice who spake when death — 
halbert (laying his hand on her arm). 

Mother ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

He shivers as with ague. Speak, my son ! 

HALBERT. 

Yes — it is over now I'll tell you all, 

As far as words can tell it. As I left 

Mac Ian's door, and walk'd in mist, which clung 

Around me like a shroud, that voice shriek'd forth 

Close at mine ear, "The Hour is nigh !" — Each cliff, 

Pillar, and cavern, echo'd back the words, 

Till they appear" d to fill the glen with sound, 

As floods from thousand streams might deluge it. 

'Twas no delusion ; surely as you hear 

My voice, I heard them. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You have mused, my son, 
In dismal solitudes on our old tales 
Till each wild pass is haunted, and the wind, 
Struggling within a mountain gully, moans 
Or shrieks with prophecy. 

HALBERT. 

No ! — It transfix 1 d me 
As with an arrrow,— when it sunk, still night 



22 GLENCOE; OR, [act u. 

Held its breath, waiting terrors ! 'Neath the moon 
Our three huge mountain bulwarks stood in light, 
Strange, solemn, spectral;— not as if they tower'd 
Majestic into heaven, but hoar and bow'd 
Beneath the weight of centuries ; and each 
Sent forth a sound as of a giant's sigh : 
Then, from their feet the mists arising, grew 
To shapes resembling human, till I saw, 
Dimly reveal'd among the ghastly train, 
Familiar forms of living clansmen, dress'd 
In vestments of the tomb ; — they glided on, 
While strains of martial music from afar 
Mock'd their sad flight. — 

\_A distant band heard playing " The Campbells are coming." 

I hear that music now, — 
The same — the same — Do you not hear it, Helen ? 
Mother ? 

HELEN. 

I hear a lively strain which speaks, 
Approaching soldiers, who'll make winter bright 
And fill our vale with gladness. 

HALBERT. 

There is death 
In those blithe sounds; — I know them now; — the tune 
Which wakes the shallow heart of false Argyle, 
Hollow and cruel ever. 

HELEN. 

Sure there's one 
Who owns that clan you would not spurn ! 

HALBERT. 

Sweet girl ! 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 23 

Your beauty, early sever'd from its stem, 
And planted in an honest soil, retains 
No vestige of its origin. 

E The music is heard approaching. 

Yet nearer ! 
Look not. on me with those beseeching eyes ; [ To Helen. 
I will enjoy it ; — 'tis a. gallant strain : 
See, Helen, how you mould me ; — I can smile now. 

HELEN. 

And you shall smile ; while you have been enthrall'd 
By dismal fancies, we have heard sweet news 
Of our long-sigh'd-for Henry. 

HALBERT. 

Of my brother? 
Shall we embrace him soon ? 

HELEN. 

We hope to-day. 

HALBERT. 

Then I will cast all sadness from my thoughts, 
And own these portents idle; — my fair brother, 
Who in staid manhood made me feel a child, 
While I instructed him with tiny arm 
To brave the torrent to its whirling pool 
O^r rocky ledge descending ! I am a boy 
Again in thinking of it. 

{Enter Henry Macdonald in the dress of an officer of the 
Earl of ArgyWs Regiment; Halbert starts and stands 
apart; Lady Macdonald eagerly embraces Henry. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

O, most welcome ! 



21 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 

h albert (apart). 
A soldier of Argyle ! a purchased slave 
To his poor country's foes ! Would he had lain, 
In all the glory of his youth, a corpse, 
Or I had died first! 

helen {laying her hand imploringly on H Albert's). 
Halbert, speak to him. 

HALBERT. 

Yes; — I '11 not dash that bonnet from his brow ; 
Right, right — I '11 speak to him. My brother ! 

[Henry embraces Halbert, ivho receives him coldly. 

HENRY. 

Stiff 
And melancholy grown ! These rugged walls 
Have shed their sullen gloom into your nature, 
And made my welcome cold. 

HALBERT. 

These walls are sacred — 
Fit home for honest poverty ; 'twere well 
If you had never left them. 

henry (approaching Helen). 

They contain 
One form of radiant loveliness ; — is this 
My some-time playmate Helen? You are silent; 
You do not bid me welcome. 

HELEN. 

Welcome, Henry? 
It is because my heart's too full of welcome 
To vent its joy in words. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 25 

h albert (apart). 

So fond ! so free ! 

This stripling will engage the care of all 

Within my little world ; — for shame ! the thought 

Is selfish and most base ; I must suppress it. — 

[Aloud, 

You 11 spend some time, I hope, in these poor walls, 

And teach us to be gay. 

HENRY. 

Our regiment mean 
To teach your clan the finest of all lessons — 
The art of spending life. We hope to raise 
Strange echoes of delight among your mountains. 
Let your old men prepare their choicest tales 
Of ancient chiefs ; your lads their sinews brace 
For noontide games and midnight dances ; bid 
Your maidens' hearts be stout, for we shall lay 
Fair siege to some of them. Your mansion, brother, 
Will not be colder, if you '11 deign to share 
A soldier's purse. 

[Henry offers a purse to Halbert, who is about to dash 
it on the ground, but restrains his passion ; pauses and 
returns it. They speak apart from Lady Macdonald 
and Helen. 

HALBERT. 

Remove it from my sight, 
Lest it provoke my curse upon the gold, 
Which, having tempted Scotland's peers to sell 
Their country, pass'd through treacherous hands to yours. 

HENRY. 

Through treacherous hands ! I will not hear that said : 
Expend your spleen on me ; but speak a word 



26 GLENCOE; OR, [act 11. 

Disgraceful to the officers I serve, 

And though my brother, you shall answer it. 

HALBERT. 

You make me smile now. I will answer it. 

I must have speedy speech with you, where none 

Shall break upon us. 

HENRY. 

At my earliest leisure. 

[To Lady Macdonald. 

Mother, my duty calls me hence awhile, 
To hear my captain^ orders. Helen, soon 
I shall reclaim old friendship. 

[Apart to Halbert.] In an hour, 
Upon Loch Leven's margin, 'neath the shade 
Of the first rock, expect me. 

HALBERT. 

Do not fail. 

[Exit Henry. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Come, Helen, let us see the tower prepared 
To feast our noble soldier and his friends. 
Is he not all a mothers hope could image? 

HELEN. 

He is indeed ; — at first he scarcely knew me; 
Changed as he is, I had not mistaken him 
Among a host of heroes ! 

[Exeunt Helen and Lady Macdonald. 

HALBERT (alone). 

Down, wild rage ! 
These rebel passions ought to fright me more 
Than night's grim phantoms. I had deem'd my temper 






scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 27 

Proof gainst all griefs, all injuries, all scorns ; 
But this — my brother self-sold to our foes ! — 
1 must be conqueror still. 

{Looks out.) 

O, blessed star 
Of morning, do you wait upon that cone 
Whose whiteness mocks our marble, to renew 
The calm cerulean distance can impart 
To thoughts of earth's brief struggles ? Linger yet ! 
It sinks ; 'tis gone ; its peace is in my soul. 

[Exit Halbert. 



SCENE II. 

A Room in a Highland House. 

Sentinels seen pacing before the Windows. — Glenlyon. 
Lindsay, and other Officers of Ar gyle's Regiment. 

GLENLYON. 

These are rough quarters for the winter, friends ; 
But let us make them jocund — find the huts 
Which yield the warmest shelter from the snow, 
And let our stores of wine and brandy pay 
The courtesies we win. 'Tis easy service. 

LINDSAY. 

Is nothing more intended here than feasting ? 

GLENLYON. 

Lindsay, I fain would hope not ; we shall wait 
For final orders. Now, our duty's plain — 
To win the favour of our hosts ; — if more 
Should be commanded, 'twill be ours to do it. 



28 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 



Enter Henry Macdonald. 

GLENLYON. 

You know this glen, Macdonald : to your charge 
I leave disposal of the soldiers ; place them 
Where frankest entertainment will be given. 

HENRY. 

The entertainment may be coarse, but given 
With heartiest welcome. I shall grant a boon 
To every clansmen in whose hut I place 
One of my gallant comrades. 

GLENLYON. 

See all lodged, 
And then report to me. This hut be mine. 

HENRY. 

May I retire? I must redeem a pledge 
Within this hour. 

GLENLYON. 

An old acquaintance found ? 
You have my leave, sir. {Exit Henry. 

Some one knocks ; attend ; 
Who waits ? 

Enter Drummond. 

DRUMMOND. 

Mac lan^ sons are at the door, 
And ask to see you. 

GLENLYON. 

Ha ! — of course admit them. 

[Exit Drummond. 
The children of the stubborn chief who dared 
Accuse our loftiest nobles that they filch 'd 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 29 

The money sent to buy the peace of Scotland ! 

I'd thank him for a brawl. Your pleasure with me ? 

Enter John and Al aster. 

JOHN. 

We bear Mac Ian's greeting to Glenlyon ; 
He trusts you come in friendship, now his oath 
To William is recorded. 

GLENLYON. 

How ! recorded ? 

ALASTER. 

Yes; by the Sheriff of Argyle. We tell 
The fact, not boast it. 

GLENLYON. 

You speak boldly, sir ; 
A spirited young Highlander, i'faith : 
Let me enlist you in our troop ; we teach 
Some manners that you lack. 

ALASTER. 

And let me lack them, 
Ere I endure your teaching. 

JOHN. 

Alaster ! 
Forbear. 

GLENLYON. 

O, let him speak. The oath is taken ? 

JOHN. 

It is: though the appointed day had pass'd, 
Yet, as mere error and the storm produced 
The slight delay, it was forgiven. 

GLENLYON. 

Well! 
Your father acted prudently at last : 



30 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 

Within you'll taste some wine, and tell me how 
His journey prosper'd. 

JOHN. 

Sir, you have not made 
Reply to my sole question ; — do you come 
To visit us in friendship ? 

GLENLYON. 

Friendship ? Surely — 
Fort-William's garrison, too small to hold 
Our regiment, sends us beggars to request 
Your hospitable greetings. 

JOHN. 

They are yours, 
And all our glen can offer shall attend them. 

GLENLYON. 

Your hand. \_To Alaster] And yours; — you'll be a 
soldier yet. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

The Banks of Loch I^even. 

Enter Henry. 

henry. 
First at the place ! — the morning's chill ; — I wish 
The quarrel were with other than the man 
I wait for; but of all the useless things 
Which form the business of the world, regret 
Is the most idle. Yet, I wish 'twere past. — 
He's here. 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 31 



Enter H albert. 

HENRY. 

I have but little time to spend, 
And the air freezes. Let's to work at once. 
Select your ground, sir. 

HALBERT. 

Do you mock me, Henry, 
With this vain show of courage? 

HENRY. 

I came hither 
Upon your summons, as I thought, to end 
A soldier's quarrel with a soldier's sword ; 
But if you can restrain the bitter speech 
To which I must not listen, I prefer 
To take your hand in kindness. As you will. 

HALBERT. 

Did I not feel that I have words to pierce 
Through that cold bravery to the heart within it, 
I might relieve you of some frolic blood 
Which makes the front of your rebellion proud. 

HENRY. 

Rebellion ! 

HALBERT. 

Have you not rebell'd at once 
Against your clan, your country, and the tomb 
Of a brave father who embraced in you 
The darling of his age? Behold his sword 
You now defy, — your plaything while he tahVd 
Of noble daring, till you paused in sport 
To hear and weep. Its sight should wound you now 



32 GLENCOE ; OR, [act ii. 

More than its edge could. What would be his grief 
Could he behold you in that hated dress, 
Linked to the foes of Scotland ! O, my brother, 
Why did you this ? 

HENRY. 

If you intend to ask 
What urged me to take service with Argyle, 
I answer you at once. — My eagle spirit, 
Which wanted air to soar in ; frank disdain 
Of dull existence, which had faintly gleam'd, 
Like yonder Serpent-river, through dark rocks 
Which bury it ; ambition for a lot 
Which places life and death upon a cast, 
And makes the loser glorious. Not for me 
The sullen pride of mouldering battlements, 
Or rites of tottering chapel. 

H ALBERT. 

Is it so? 
Is ancient sanctity, which sheds its grace 
Upon the infant's sportiveness, and cleaves 
To the old warrior when he falls, a thing 
To mock at ? But I wrong you there : I know 
Your heart then spoke not. I could cherish pride 
In your gay valour, if a generous cause 
Had won its aid ; — nay, deeming Scotland lost, 
If you had sought your fortune at the court 
Of England, I had borne it ; — but to join 
With these domestic traitors — men who know 
The rights they sell ; who understand the ties 
Which, through the wastes of centuries, cement 
Our clans, and give the sacred cord one life 
Of reverential love ; for whom these hills 
On the clear mirror of their childhood cast 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 33 

Great shadows ; who have caught their martial rage 

From deeds of Wallace and of Bruce, and learn'd 

To temper and enrage it with the sense 

Of suffering beauty, which from Mary's fate 

Gleams through dim years ; and who conspire to crush 

These memories in men's souls, and call the void 

They make there, freedom — is a deed to weep for ! 

HENRY. 

I may not hear the comrades whom I love 
Thus slander'd. 

HALBERT. 

You shall hear me while I speak 
Of that which nearly touches you, as one 
Of a small— branded — poor — illustrious race ; 
Who boast no fertile pastures ; no broad lake 
Studded with island woods, which make the soul 
Effeminate with richness, like the scenes 
In which the baffled Campbells hid their shame, 
And scorn'd their distant foes. Our boasts are few, 
Yet great : — a stream which thunders from its throne, 
As when its roar was mingled with the voice 
Of eldest song, from age to age retain'd 
In human hearts; — wild myrtles which preserve 
Their hoard of perfume for the dying hour 
When rudeness crushes them ; — rocks which no flowers 
Of earth adorn, but, in themselves austere, 
Receive The Beautiful direct from Heaven, 
Which forces them to wear it, — shows their tops 
Refined with air ; compels their darkest steeps 
Reluctant to reflect the noontide sun 
In sheeted splendour — wreathes around them clouds 
In glorious retinue, which, while they float 
Slowly, or rest beneath the sable heights, 

D 



34 GLENCOE ; OR, [act it. 

In their brief fleecy loveliness grow proud 
To wait upon The Lasting. — And the right 
To walk this glen with head erect, you sold 
For bounties which Argyle could offer ! 

HENRY. 

No— 
Not for base lucre ! — for a soldier's life, 
Whose virtue's careless valour, unperplex'd 
With aught beyond the watchword. If your cause 
Were vital, I would freely draw my sword 
To serve it ; but where lives it ? 

HALBERT. 

In the soul 
Which, ruffled by no hope to see it tower 
Again in this world, cherishes it still 
In its own deathless and unsullied home ; — 
That soul which, swelling from the mould of one 
Obscure as I, can grasp the stubborn forms 
Of this great vale, and bend them to its use, 
Until their stateliest attributes invest 
W T ith pillar'd majesty the freeborn thoughts 
Which shall survive them. Even these rocks confess 
Change and decay ; show where the ancient storm 
Rent their grey sides, and, from their iron hearts, 
Unriveted huge masses for its sport, 
And left their splinters to attest a power 
Greater than they ;— but mighty truths like those 
On which our slighted cause was based, shall hold 
Their seat in the clear spirit which disdains 
To sully or resign them, undisturbM 
By change or death :— they are eternal, Henry ! 

HENRY. 

If we were now the lords of this domain 






scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 35 

You love so well, I might have own'd a tie 
To bind me to your wishes ; you resign'd them ; 
What can these mountains yield to one who owns 
Mac Ian as their lord ? 

HALBERT. 

The power to bear 
That bitter taunt— which yet I feel!— O Henry ! 
Was that well said ? 

HENRY. 

You should not have provoked it 
By slanders on my officers and friends. 

HALBERT. 

Your friends ! Poor youth ! companionship in mirth, 
Ungraced by thought, makes shallow friends; and yours 
Are worse than shallow — they are false. 

HENRY. 

Nay, this 
I will not bear ; draw, sir ! 

[Henry draws his szvord, and rushes on Halbert, 
who dashes it from his hand. 

HALBERT. 

Take up your sword ; 
See how a bad cause makes a brave arm weak ! 
Blush not ; 'twas but in pastime. 

HENRY. 

Kill me now, 
And walk the hills in pride ! 

HALBERT. 

Too plain I see 
Our paths diverge ; — but let us not forget 
That we have trod life's early way together, 
Hand clasp'd in hand. How proud was I to watch 

d 2 



36 GLENCOE; OR, [act n. 

Your youngest darings, when I saw you dive 
To the deep bottom of the lake beneath us, 
Nor draw one breath till in delight you rose 
To laugh above it ; when T traced the crags 
By which with lightest footstep you approach'd 
The eaglets' bed ; and when you slipp'd, yet knew 
No paleness, bore you in my trembling arms 
To yon black ridge, from which in the cold thaw 
The snow wreath melts, as infancy's pure thoughts 
Have vanished from your soul. 

HENRY. 

No— Halbert— no ! 
Graceless I shook them from it, but they crowd 
Here at your voice. 

HALBERT. 

And you will not forget us ? 
Go, then, where fortune calls you, loved and praised— 
Let not the ribald licence of a camp 
Insult the griefs of Scotland. 'Mid the brave 
Be bravest ; and when honours wait your grasp, 
Allow a moment's absence to your heart 
While it recals one lonely tower, whose doors 
Would open to you were you beggar'd, shamed, 
Forsaken ; — and beside whose once-loved hearth 
Your praises shall awaken joy more fervent 
Than nobler friends can guess at. Ah ! you weep— 
My own true brother still ! 

HENRY. 

I am ! I am ! [They embrace. 
Enter Helen. 

HELEN. 

Forgive me that I follow'd you. I saw 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 37 

Both ruffled at your parting ; but my fears 
Never suggested an event so sad, 
As that two brothers, from whose swords alone 
We hope protection, should direct their points 
Against each other's lives. 

HENRY. 

You must not leave 
This spot with the belief that Halbert shares 
The blame of this encounter ; mine the fault, 
Be mine the shame. 

HALBERT. 

I will not let you pour 
On Helen's ear one word of self-reproach ; 
You'll not believe him shamed I 

HELEN. 

Indeed I will not ; 
I feel that shame and Henry are disjoin'd 
As yonder summits. [To Henry. 

I must teach your steps 
The pleasant pathways which we used to tread 
In old sweet times. [_Takes his hand. 

halbeet (apart). 
It cannot be she means 
Other than sisterly regard in this ; 
'Tis but the frankness of a courteous heart. 
No more — no more. 

helen (to Halbert). 

Will you not walk with us ? 
I have a hand for you too. 

HALBERT. 

Nothing else? 



38 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 

HELEN. 

Y es ; and a heart — a grateful one. So solemn ! 

Nay, you must smile ; this is a day of joy, 

And shall be cloudless. Hark ! the music calls us. 

[Martial music at a distance. 

HALBERT. 

Those strains again ! Forgive me, Let us home. 

[Exeunt 



END OF ACT II. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 39 



ACT III.* 

SCENE I. 

The Quarters of Glenlyon. 

Enter Glenlyon and Lindsay. 

GLENLYON. 

Are you not weary of your quarters, Lindsay ? 

LINDSAY. 

Not I ; — I care but little where I lodge. 

GLENLYON. 

These fifteen days among the snows will nerve 

Our soldiers to encounter a campaign 

In coldest winter. Do they bear it bravely ? 

LINDSAY. 

Bear it ? The rogues exult in it ! Rude plenty 
And loosen'd discipline make rich amends 
For rations duly meted, and warm shelter, 
The garrison affords. Our savage hosts 
Have openM their rock-cellar'd stores of ale, 
And of the luscious juice from honey press'd, 
Which the wild bee from scanty heather wins 
To make us jocund ; laughter and the dance 
Have shaken many a hovel. May I ask 
If we are destined long to dally thus ? 

* A Fortnight is supposed to elapse between the Second and Third Acts. 



40 GLENCOE; OR, [act in. 

GLENLYON. 

I know not, Lindsay ; what our mission was 
Y^ou heard : — I scarcely dare remember it ; 
I, who have ever held my conduct true 
To orders, as my pistol to my touch, 
And feel these fastnesses are unsubdued 
While a fierce clan like this retains its show 
Of unity and ancient right, recoil 
From that which we may execute. But thus 
We must not loiter; every social cup — 
Each pressure of the hand, will make our work 
Harder and darker. I will send at once 
To Duncanson ; perchance Mac Ian's oath 
Accepted by the Sheriff, though so late, 
May save him. There's a mournful courtesy 
In this old chief, crest-falFn but self-sustain'd, 
Which softens me to wish it. 

LINDSAY. 

He is crafty, 
But yet most daring : never will the Highlands 
Know peace while he infests them. 

glenlyon (writing). 

Wound not him 
With the sharp tongue on whom your sword may deal ; 
I will despatch Macdonald : can you tell 
Where I may find him ? 

LINDSAY. 

No: but I am sure 
He"^ pleasantly engaged ; for I have met him 
Often, since we have lodged here, with a lady 
Gracing his arm, whom a slight glance approves 






scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 41 

Of rarest beauty. But he comes to make 
His own report. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 



GLENLYON. 

'Tis well, sir, you have come ; 
You have but seldom sought my orders here ; 
And but that I am told you have fair plea 
For such remissness, I might censure it. 
At present, I require to know the name 
And station of the damsel who has drawn 
So true an officer from duty. 

HENRY. 

Sir, 
My home was in this glen, and I live here 
Beneath my brother's roof. 

GLENLYON. 

Nay, no evasion ; 
Tell me at once to whom I ow^e your absence, 
Or hope no favour. 

HENRY. 

If I had not fear'd 

The old estrangement which the father caused 
Might touch the daughter, I had long ere this 
Sought for her your protection. She is the child 
Of your slain brother, from your love so long 
Unhappily divided. 

GLENLYON. 

I knew not 
That he had left a daughter. 

HENRY. 

When he died, 



42 GLENCOE; OR, [act hi. 

You were abroad ; and she, an infant, found 
A sire in mine. 

GLENLYON. 

Poor girl, to find her here 
At such a moment !— but she shall be cared for. 

HENRY. 

Cared for ! 

GLENLYON. 

Yes — cared for ; — said I something strange ? 
1st strange that I should care for her? To business : — 
You are swift of foot, and know the jagged paths 
Among these hills. [Gives a letter. 

Bear this to Duncanson, 
And bring his answer with your best despatch : 
When you return, we'll talk of my fair niece, 
The partner of your rambles. I'll find means 
To honour and reward you. Lindsay, come. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A Room in Halberfs Tower. 

Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Helen, how grave you are ! While winter stretch'd 
Its dull eventless length, your ready mirth 
Streak'd the dark hours with gaiety, which else 
Had been unvaried gloom. Now that our snows 
Glitter with dancing feathers and bright plaids, 
Our echoes learn to laugh, and our rough paths 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 43 

Are cheer 'd by tales of love, you droop and sigh ! 
Does any secret grief afflict my child ? 

HELEN. 

Grief, madam ! 'Tis the pensiveness of joy, 
Too deep for language, too serene for mirth, 
Makes me seem sad. To meet in manhood's bloom 
The gentle playmate of my childhood ; propp'd 
On the same arm to tread the same wild paths ; 
And in sweet fellowship of memories, feel 
Hour after hour of long-forgotten pleasure 
Start forth in sunny vividness to break 
The mist of heavy years,— is joy so hearted, 
That it can find no colour in the range 
Of gladness to express it ; — so accepts 
A solemn hue from grief. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Have you then felt 
Those years so heavy, you have help'd to make 
So light to me ? Your lodging has been bleak, 
Your entertainment scanty ; yet your youth 
Has been so furnish'd with rich thoughts, so raised 
To lofty contemplations, that my pride 
In the bright valour of my younger son 
Cannot prevent my wonder that the hours 
In which my Halbert with delighted care 
Has minister^ to your soul's noblest thirsts, 
Should be thus soon forgotten. 

HELEN. 

Not forgotten, 
Nor have the years been heavy : when I said so, 
I was most thankless. Pardon me, sweet lady, 
But when with Henry, I recal old times, 



44 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

I look across the intervening years 

As a low vale in which fair pastures lie 

Unseen, to gaze upon a sunlit bank 

On which my childhood sported, and which grows 

Near as I watch it. If his nature seems 

Unsofteu'd by reflexion, — like a rock 

Which draws no nurture from the rains, nor drinks 

The sunbeam in that lights it, yet sustains 

A plume of heather, — it is crown'd with grace 

Which wins the heart it shelters. 

LADY MAC DONALD. 

My dear Halbert, 
How will you bear this ! 

HELEN. 

Can it be, you fear 
My joy in Henry's presence should afflict 
A soul so great as Halbert's ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I do fear it ; — 
I know it; shudder at it : can you doubt 
That Halbert loves you ? 

HELEN. 

Do not think it, madam, 
For mercy's sake, if you intend by love 
Something beyond a brother's fondest care 
For a lone sister ! You are silent ; turn 
Your face away ; your bosom throbs as grief 
Or terror shook it. Am I grown a curse 
To you — to him ? O whither shall I fly ? 
Where seek for counsel ? Dearest lady, save me ! 

[Helen throws herself on Lady Macdonald's neck. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 45 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Rest there, beloved fair one ; I will try 
To temper this to Halbert ; — yet I fear — 
He's bending towards us. 

HELEN. 

Hide me from his sight, 
I cannot bear it now. 

lady macdonald {leading Helen to the side). 
That way ; I'll break 
This sorrow to him, if I can ; — be calm. 

[Exit Helen. 

Enter Halbert from the opposite side. 

HALBERT. 

Was not that Helen ? Wherefore should she fly 
Upon my coming ? But her absence serves 
My purpose now. I came to talk of her. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Of her ? Sit down ; you look fatigued and ill : 
Til fetch a draught of wine. 

halbert. 

Fatigued and ill ! 
My looks belie me, then ; I scarce have felt 
So fresh in spirit since I was a boy, 
And the sweet theme I come to speak of needs 
No wine to make it joyous. It is marriage. 

LADY" MACDONALD. 

My son ! 

halbert. 

Why, you look pale ; I thought my wish 
Was also yours. I know a common mother, 
Who, having lost her husband in her prime, 



46 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

Seeks from a grateful son some slight return 
For love that watclVd his infancy, may feel 
Her fortune cruel, when a new regard, 
With all the greediness of passion, fills 
The bosom where till then affection reign'd, 
Which answered, though it could not rival, hers : 
But we have lived so long as equal friends 
With love absorbing duty, that I thought, 
And I still think, increase of joy to me 
Must bring delight to you. I could have lived 
Content, as we have lived, and still prolong 
The lingering ecstacy of fearless hope, 
But that the licence of the time, which brings 
A band of loose companions to our glen, 
Requires that I should claim a husband's right 
To shield its lovely orphan. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You mean — Helen ? 

HALBERT. 

Whom else could I intend ? If you have been 
Perplex'd by fear that I might mean to seek 
Another's hand, no wonder you grew pale. 
But still you tremble; — what is this? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My son. 
Are you assured she loves you ? 

HALBERT. 

As assured 
As of my love for her. In both, one wish, 
As she has glided into womanhood, 
Has grown with equal progress. 



scene ii. J THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 47 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Have you sought 
Of her, if she esteems it thus ? 

HALBERT. 

By words? 
No ; for I never doubted it : as soon 
Should I have ask'd you if a mother's love 
Watctfd o'er my nature^s frailties. If sweet hopes 
Dawning at once on each ; if gentle strifes 
To be the yielder of each little joy 
Which chance provided ; if her looks upraised 
In tearful thankfulness for each small boon 
Which, nothing to the giver, seem'd excess 
To her ; if poverty endured for years 
Together in this valley, — do not breathe 
Of mutual love, I have no stronger proofs 
To warrant my assurance. Mother, speak ! 
Do you know anything which shows all this 
A baseless dream ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My Halbert, you have quelFd 
Fierce passion by strong virtue ; use your strength — 
Nay, do not start thus ; I do not affirm 
With certainty you are deceived, but tremble 
Lest the expressions of a thankful heart 
And gracious disposition should assume 
A colour they possess not, to an eye 
Bent fondly over them. 

HALBERT. 

It cannot be ; 
A thousand, and a thousand times, I've read 
Her inmost soul; and you that rack me thus 



48 GLENCOE; OR, [act in, 

With doubt have read it with me. Before Heaven, 

I summon you to witness ! In the gloom 

Of winter's dismal evening, while I strove 

To melt the icy burthen of the hours 

By knightly stories, and rehearsed the fate 

Of some high maiden's passion, self-sustained 

Through years of solitary hope, or crownM 

In death with triumph, have you not observed, 

As fading embers threw a sudden gleam 

Upon her beauty, that its gaze was fix'd 

On the rapt speaker, with a force that told 

How she could lavish such a love on him ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I have ; and then I fancied that she loved you. 

II ALBERT. 

Fancied ! Good mother, is that emptiest sound 

The comfort that you offer? Is my heart 

Fit sport for fancy ? Fancied ! — 'twas as clear 

As it were written in the book of God 

By a celestial penman. Answer me, 

Once more ! when hurricanes have rockM these walls, 

And dash'd upon our wondering ears the roar 

Of the far sea, exulting that its wastes 

Were populous with agonies ; with loves 

Strongest in death ; with memories of long years 

Grey phantom of an instant ; — as my arms 

Enfolding each, grew tighter with the sense 

Of feebleness to save ; — have you not known 

Her looks, beyond the power of language, speak 

In resolute content, how sweet it were 

To die so link'd together ? 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 49 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I have mark'd it. 

HALBERT. 

Then wherefore do you torture me with doubt ? 
What can you know, what guess, that you can weigh 
Against these proofs ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Be firm ; she loves another. 

HALBERT. 

'Tis false ! — and yet, great Heaven ! your quivering lips 

Attest it. And you knew this ? You partook 

Her counsels — His ? — Yes, His ! — you know the name 

Which I must curse — of him I must pursue 

Through deserts and through cities till I search 

His bosom with my sword. Tell me the name — 

Now — now — delay not. 

lady macdonald [laying her hand on his arm). 
H albert, pause, and look 
Into your mother's face, and then reply 
To her :— does she deserve this of her son ? 

HALBERT. 

I am a wretch indeed to use command 

Where I should humbly sue — Sit, sit, dear mother, 

Assume your old authority. 

[Wildly places her in a chair and falls on his knees beside it. 

I kneel 
There — meekly as you taught me — when you raised 
For the first time my little hands to God ; 
A child, obedient and infirm as then, 
I do implore you, tell your wretched son 
What he must suffer. 



50 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Are you arm'd to bear it ? 

HALBERT. 

For all things. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Henry — 

halbert. [Starting up. 

My own brother ! Now 
I see it clear ; — remember how she gazed 
With fondness on him, when lie came array \1 
In a slave's tinsel ; how she seized his hand 
When I had dash'd the insulting weapon from it,' 
Aim'd at my life. Would I had slain him there ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

What fearful vision crosses you ? Slay Henry — 
Him whom you moulded ! From unthinking youth 
Strike him to bloody senselessness, and bid 
Your twice-stabb'd mother gaze upon her sons — 
The murder'd and the guilty ! 

HALBERT. 

Guilty ? — yes ! 
I am — I thought it — felt as if my arm 
Could act it ; — utter'd it. Look not upon me ! 
Earth hide me ! — cover me ! 

^Sinks into a seat and covers his face with his hands. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I fear'd this outbreak 
Of fire subdued, not quenchM. My noble son, 
As you have wrestled with the fiends, and quell'd them, 
Be victor now ! 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 51 

halbert (rising). 
Are you assured she loves him ? 
It may be but a girlish dream, — her eye 
Enchanted for a moment by the grace 
Of youth — her fancy dazzled by the show 
Of military prowess, — while her soul 
In its serene and inmost temple waits 
Untouch'd and true. 'Tis so. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Would that it were ! 

HALBERT. 

I will awake her spirit from its trance ; 
I '11 meet her face to face, and soul to soul, 
And so be satisfied. 

LADY MACPONALD. 

You shall do so, 
If you will rule your passion, 

HALBERT. 

I am calm, 
Docile as infancy ; I ll seek her now. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

No ; — I will bring her on the instant. Think 
That she has not a refuge in the world 
Except in our protecting care, and feel 
How gently she should be entreated ! Rage 
From you would kill her. 

HALBERT. 

Rage — to her ? All weak 
In passion as I am, you need not fear it. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I'll trust you. [Exit Lady Macdonald. 

e2 



52 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

HALBERT (alone). 

She will come with her sweet voice 
To charm away this mist. Alas ! I 'm rude 
And moody ; he is gay, and quick of spirit, 
And light of heart. Why did I let them roam 
So often ? Yet it cannot be ; her heart 
Could not be caught by gauds ; — so pure ; so arm'd — 
So true ! 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 

HENRY. 

What, musing ! Let me not disturb 
Deep meditations. Is my mother near, 
Or Helen ? 

HALBERT. 

Helen ! 

HENRY. 

I have scarce a word 
To spend with either ; though I would not pass 
Your tower unvisited, I 'm bound to speed, 
For I am bearer of an urgent letter 
To Duncanson. 

HALBERT. 

To Duncanson ? The foe 
Most bitter to our clan ; — and you dare bring it 
Here; — to your father's hall — where you were train'd 
To clansman's duty ; — which you left in scorn, 
And now revisit in a lackey's guise 
To boast a cursed mission ; yield it to me, 
Traitor and slave ! or I will tear it from you. 

HENRY. 

Stand off! — what frenzy rules you ? Let me pass. 

HALBERT. 

There 's treachery in it — and in you. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 53 

Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Your word ! 
[Halbert, at sight of Helen, pauses and shrinks back. 

HALBEUT (to HENRY). 

Forgive me ; I am ill at ease, and scarce 
Know what I utter. 

HENRY. 

I shall think of this 
But as brain-sickness which your studies bring; 
Heaven keep me from them ! I must not delay 
A moment more: — farewell; — I shall return 
This way to-morrow, and shall hope to find 
Your grave philosopher in reason's mood. 

[Exit Henry. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I leave you : recollect your word. 

HALBERT. 

I will. 
[Exit Lady Macdonald. 

HALBERT. 

Be not alarm'd, sweet Helen ; if your looks, 
Turn'd gently on me, had not power to still 
The tempest my frail nature has endured, 
The issue of this moment would command 
All passion to deep silence, while I ask — 
If my scathed life enrich'd by yours may spread 
Its branches in the sunshine, or shrink up 
In withering solitude, a sapless thing, 
Till welcome death shall break it ? 



54 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

HELEN. 

Do not think 
Your noble nature can require a reed 
So weak as mine to prop it : virtue's power, 
Which shields it as a breastplate, will not yield 
To transient sorrow which a thankless girl 
Can hurl against it. 

H ALBERT. 

Little do you guess 
The heart you praise : 'tis true, among the rocks 
I sought for constancy, and day by day 
It grew ; but then within its hardening frame 
One exquisite affection took its root, 
And strengthen^ in its marble ; — if you tear 
That living plant, with thousand fibres, thence, 
You break up all ; — my struggles are in vain, 
And I am ruin ! 

HELEN. 

What a lot of mine ! 
I, who would rather perish than requite 
Long years of kindness with one throb of pain, 
Must make that soul a wreck ! 

HALBERT. 

No, Helen, no — 
It is a dream ; your heart is mine ; mine only, — 
I'll read it here : — you have not pledged its faith 
To any other ? 

HELEN. 

No ; — not yet. 

HALBERT. 

Thank God !— 
Then you are mine ; we have been betrothed for years. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

HELEN. 

Would it had been so ! 

H ALBERT. 

You desire it ? 

HELEN. 

Yes; 
I then had kept such watch upon my soul, 
As had not let the shadow of a thought 
Fall on your image there ; but not a word 
Of courtship pass'd between us. 

HALBERT. 

Not a word. 
Words are for lighter loves, that spread their films 
Of glossy threads, which while the air 's serene 
Hang gracefully, and sparkle in the sun 
Of fortune, or reflect the fainter beams 
Which moonlight fancy sheds ; but ours — yes, ours !■ 
Was woven with the toughest yarn of life, 
For it was blended with the noblest things 
We lived for ; with the majesties of old, 
The sable train of mighty griefs o'erarcrTd 
By Time's deep shadows ; with the fate of kings, — 
A glorious dynasty — for ever crushM 
With the great sentiments which made them strong 
In the affections of mankind; — with grief 
For rock-enthroned Scotland ; with poor fortune 
Shared cheerfully ; with high resolves ; with thoughts 
Of death ; and with the hopes that cannot die. 

HELEN. 

Hold ! If you rend oblivion's slender veil 
Thus fearfully, and spectres of the past 
Glide o'er my startled spirit, it will fail 
In reason. 



56 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

H ALBERT. 

No ;— it shall cast off this cloud, 
And retain no impression save of things 
Which last for ever; — for to such our love 
Has been allied. How often have we stood, 
Clasp'd on yon terrace by columnar rocks, 
Upon whose jagged orifice the sky 
With its few, stars seem'd pillar'd, and have felt 
Our earthly fortunes, bounded like the gorge 
That held us, had an avenue beyond, 
Like that we gazed on ; and when summer eve 
Has tempted us to wander on the bank 
Of glory-tinged Loch-Leven, till the sea 
Open'd beyond the mountains, and the thoughts 
Of limitless expanse were rendered sweet 
By crowding memories of delicious hours 
SootrTd by its murmur, we have own'd and bless'd 
The Presence of Eternity and Home ! 

HELEN. 

What shall I do? 

HALBERT. 

Hear me while I invoke 
The spirit of one moment to attest, 
In the great eye of love-approving Heaven, 
We are each other's. When a fragile bark 
Convey 'd our little household to partake 
The blessing that yet lingers o'er the shrine 
Of desolate Iona, the faint breath 
Of evening wafted us through cluster'd piles 
Of gently-moulded columns, which the sea — 
Softening from tenderest green to foam more white 
Than snow-wreaths on a marble ridge — illumed 
As 'twould dissolve and win them ; — till a cave, 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 57 

The glorious work of angel architects 
Sent on commission to the sacred isle, 
From which, as from a fountain, God's own light 
Stream'd o'er dark Europe — in its fretted span 
Embraced us. — Pedestals of glistening black 
Rose, as if waiting for the airy tread 
Of some enraptured seraph who might pause 
To see blue Ocean through the sculptured ribs 
Of the tall arch-way's curve, delight to lend 
His vastness to the lovely. We were charnTd, 
Not awe-struck ; — for The Beautiful was there 
Triumphant in its palace. As we gazed 
Rapt and enamour'd, our small vessel struck 
The cavern's side, and by a shock which seem'd 
The last that we should suffer, you were thrown 
Upon my neck — You clasp'd me then ; — and shared 
One thought of love and heaven ! 

HELEN. 

Am I indeed 
Faithless, yet knew it not ? my soul's perplex'd ; — 
Distracted. Whither shall it turn ? — To you ! — 
Be you its arbiter. Of you I ask, 
In your own clear simplicity of heart, 
Did you believe me yours ? 

HALBERT. 

Yes ; and you are „ 
With this sweet token I assure you mine, 

{Places a ring on her finger. 

In sight of angels. Bless you ! 

help;n. 

It is done 
I dare not, cannot, tear this ring away. 



58 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

HALBERT. 

It but denotes what Heaven has registered ; 

We must not pause : when will you that this pledge 

Shall be redeem'd ? To-morrow ? 

HELEN. 

Give me time 
To speak with — to call in my scatter'd thoughts. 

HALBERT. 

The next day, then ? 

HELEN. 

Direct it as you please ; 
Would I were worthy ! — pray you leave me now. 

HALBERT. 

I go to share my blessedness with her 

Whose love you share with me; — our mother, Helen. 

[Exit Hal bert. 

HELEN. 

Where am I ?— can I wake from this strange dream ? 

[Observes the ring. 
No — 'tis all real — the good and brave alone 
Have power upon the spirits of the guiltless 
To raise or mar them. O that I had met 
All evil things — oppression — slander — hate — 
How would I have defied them ! 

Enter Lady Macdonald. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Is it true 
You have consented to wed Halbert ? 

HELEN. 

Yes. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 59 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My child, come to my heart. How's this ? You are pale 
And cold as marble. 

HELEN. 

You may well regard 
My purpose with distrust ; — but when I take 
The noble Halbert's hand, I bid adieu 
To every recollection which might touch 
My duty to him. I shall never muse 
On childhood's pleasures, innocent no more 
For me ; — shall never tread the shelter'd paths 
Which I have lately linger'd in ; nor think 
Upon a soldier's glories ; nor repeat 
One name — O never ! — I am very weak, 
I did not know how weak. The Virgin aid me ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

She will, my lovely one. 

HELEN. 

I'll seek the chapel, 
If these poor limbs will bear me. — On your bosom 
I must seek strength first, mother. 

LADY MACDONALD 

Weep there, child, 
And may Heaven's arms encircle you as mine ! 

[Exeunt 



END OF ACT III. 



60 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

The Tower of Halbert. 
Time — Noon of the Sixteenth Dai/. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 

HENRY. 

Will no one answer me ? — I call in vain ; — 
And must pass on without that glimpse of Helen 
I came to win. [Kenneth crosses the stage. 

Stay, fellow ; whereas my mother ? 

KENNETH. 

She is preparing for our master's wedding, 

Of which our notice has been short ; 'twas yesterday 

Appointed for to-morrow. 

HENRY. 

Halbert's wedding ! — 
That's pleasant news, though strange ; — to think my brother, 
My solemn brother, all this time in love ! 
He has not trusted me ; so I must ask 
Of you, the fair one's name. 

KENNETH. 

Name .'—surely, sir, 
It could be none but Helen Campbell. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 61 

HENRY. 

Cease 
Your jesting with that name, or with my sword 
I'll try to teach you manners. 

KENNETH. 

Jesting, sir! — 
We have little jesting here ; — although these walls 
Will ring for once, when our dear master gives them 
So kind a mistress. 

HENRY. 

Dare you mock me ? No ! — 
I will not vent my rage on you ; — if this 
Is not a jest, tell your kind mistress, — here 
Henry Macdonald waits her ! — bid her come 
And answer to him as she loves her life. 

KENNETH. 

I'll seek her, sir. 

HENRY. 

Begone. [Exit Kenneth. 

Can this be true ? 
Yes ; that poor knave would never dare invent 
A tale so monstrous ; — but it passes all 
My lightest comrades tell of woman's falsehood. 
How will they scoff at me — duped and despised 
By this meek mountain damsel — cast aside 
For a dull dreamer of the rocks, who dared 
To school me with his wisdom ! Wise, indeed, 
The lady has become, to leave my hopes 
Of wealth and glory for these crazy walls, 
And solemn disputations. 'Tis a jest, 
I'faith a merry one ! — her uncle, too, 
My captain and my friend ! — Most generous brother, 
Til mar your triumph yet. 



62 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 

Enter Helen. 

O you are here ! 

HELEN. 

Yes ; on a summons couched in terms more harsh 
Than needful : I had come on lightest word 
That spoke your wish to see me. 

HENRY. 

Do you talk 
To me of harshness ! Look me in the face — 
Look steadily upon me, and reply 
To one brief question. 

[Henry seizes Helen's arm ; she looks at him and 
turns away in tears. 

HENRY. 

No ! — I need not ask it. 
Yet hold one moment ; is the bridegroom here ? 
I long to wish him joy. 

HELEN. 

Accuse him not : 
He^ innocent of all. 

HENRY. 

O, doubtless ! Still 
""Twas churlish not to bid me to his bridal ; 
What is the happy hour ? 

HELEN. 

Sunrise. 

HENRY. 

Until 
That hour, farewell. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. G3 

HELEN. 

O leave me not in scorn ! 
But as you are a brave man, to the weak 
Be merciful. Although no plighted faith 
Is broken with you, I will not allow 
A base self-flattery to conceal the truth 
That I have wrong'd you — stolen delightful hours, 
And cherish'd gentle vanities, with heart 
Too joyous to revert to holy ties 
Long woven, though unrecognised, which link'd 
My destiny to Halberfs. He has shown 
That, though I knew it not, my life is his, 
And I have own'd his title to the hand 
This ring enriches. 

HENRY. 

And for dreams like this 
You have repelPd a soldier's love, which you, 
And only you> could have secured — released him 
From the sole anchor of a giddy youth, 
(So you described it,) and yourself from share 
Of his young fortunes, and the ample dowry 
With which your uncle would have graced them ! 

HELEN. 

Stain not 
The few sad moments we may spend with thought 
So little worthy. Had my lot been cast 
With yours, I should have cared for no success 
Save as it made you happier ; sought no pleasures 
But the perennial gaiety your mirth 
Had shed around me ; — deem'd no travel long 
If shared with — Hold ! — Accept my last farewell ; — 
May that undaunted courage which breathes in you 
Inspire you to attain the airiest heights 



64 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

Of glory, and upon them carve a name 

Resplendent to all soldiers ; — yet your frankness 

Dispel all envy from it ; may your feasts, 

Crown'd with delights, be shared by noblest friends ; 

And from your towering fortunes, may the cloud 

Which a slight woman's wayward folly wreathed 

Around them, in soft sunshine melt at once, 

And, with her, be forgotten ! So Heaven speed you ! 

[Exit Helen. 

HENRY. 

Yes; it will speed me; for she loves me still ! 

But I forget my duty ; — this despatch 

Is waited for by him who shall avenge me ! 

{Exit Henry Macdonald. 



SCENE II. 

The Quarters of Glenlyon. 
Glenlyon — Lindsay. 

glenlyon. 

Surely 'tis time Macdonald had return 'd, 

The readiest, boldest, and most constant officer 

I ever yet promoted ; — some mischance 

Or treachery must delay him. Treachery — faugh ! 

'Tis an ill word, but may import no more 

Than a safe means of justice, which rash force 

Might frustrate. Would our messenger were here ! 

LINDSAY. 

Indeed time presses ; we shall bear the charge 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 65 

Of weakness for the doubt which has delayed 
The course prescribed. 

GLENLYON. 

He was not wont to loiter. 
If the command be clear, my course is plain ; 
And yet — he comes — could I suspect he knew 
The tidings that he bears, his face would tell them. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 

GLENLYON. 

How 's this ? Your looks are wild ; have you met aught 
Should shake a brave man's constancy ? 

HENRY. 

I crave 
Your pardon ; 'tis a private grief unnerves me ; 
The lovely lady who has shared my walks, 
And, as I proudly thought, return'd the love 
She had inspired in me, at sunrise weds 
My elder brother. What of that ? My duty 
Has been perform'd ; — and Duncanson's reply 
Is here. 

[Henry delivers a letter to Glenlyon. 

GLENLYON. 

Thanks ;— wait within ; — refresh yourself; — 
I'll deal with your fair rebel. 

[Exit Henry Macdonald. 

My hand trembles 
As it has never trembled ; — I shall mar 
The seal ;— open and read the letter. — 

[Lindsay opens and reads the letter. 

Well ? 



66 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv 

LINDSAY. 

It is as I expected and you fear'd ; 
The order is to guard the avenues 
To-night ; and ere the morning, put in force 
The royal ordinance on the lives of all 
Below the age of seventy. 

GLENLYON. 

Would that death 



Had met me first ! 



Obedience ? 



LINDSAY. 

Yet you will not withhold 



GLENLYON. 

Never; — I am shaken now, 
But you shall find me constant to obey 
The simple law of duty : — none shall live. 

LINDSAY. 

Think of these clansmen as of rebels snared 
In treason, whom a law, disdaining forms, 
Has sentenced : it is hard to make brave soldiers 
The executioners of civil judgment ; 
Yet we must do our office. 

GLENLYON. 

Be it yours 
To show the men their duty. 

LINDSAY. 

I will do 
All you may order ; but I cannot range 
The soldiers so as to prevent escape 
Through the wild passes of these mountains ; none, 
Unless familiar with the glen, can do this. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 62 

GLENLYON. 

Call in Macdonald. [Exit Lindsay. 

He shall plant the men : 
His present passion moulds him to our will. 

Re-enter Lindsay and Henry Macdonald. 

GLENLYON (to HENRY). 

There is a service I would claim of you, 
Which, well achieved, shall humble to your feet 
The rival who presumes to cross your wish 
For my alliance, and reward your love 
With happiest fortune. 

HENRY. 

Let the service be 
So full of peril that the chance of life 
Bears but a thousandth portion of the hope 
That death is greedy with, and I embrace it. 

GLENLYON. 

It lacks the peril you desire. This clan, 
Though crouching now to William's power, retains 
Its lion fierceness. We must tame its chiefs 
By forcing them, in abject terms, to sue 
For pardon — yield their hidden stores of arms — 
And feel themselves subdued. At dawn to-morrow 
We'll awe them to submission, by array 
Of soldiers, planted in each track, whose arms 
Shall make the glen their prison. What I seek 
Is, that at midnight, you, who know the paths, 
Would so dispose the soldiers that no clansman 
Escape the vale — save by the eastern road, 
Which Duncanson will line ; — that done, repose — 
And dream that at the sunrise you shall see 

f2 



68 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

Your daring rival suppliant, and my niece 
Your wealthy bride. Will you do this? 

HENRY. 

I will. 
Enter Drummond. 

DRUMMOND. 

I come to ask if I shall bid the band 
Attend you at the feast. 

GLENLYON. 

What feast? 

LINDSAY. 

The banquet 
Mac Ian gives to-day : — the hour is near. 

GLENLYON. 

A banquet ! that is terrible. 

lindsay (apart to Glenlyon). 

Be wary ; 
Eyes are upon us. 

(Aloud.) You will send the band ; 
All we can do, should grace our visit. 

GLENLYON (to DRUMMOND). 

Yes: 

You may retire. [Exit Drummond. 

GLENLYON (to HENRY). 

At dawn I will attend 
Your bridal ; 'twill be yours. At this night's feast 
Beware that by no word or look you hint 
The midnight duty or the morning's hope : 
Be calm — as I am. [Exeunt Glenlyon and Ltndsay. 



scene in] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 69 

henry (alone) 

How shall I subdue 
The mantling sense of victory which laughs 
And dances in my spirit ? He who dash'd 
My good sword from my grasp shall feel he stands 
Before his master ; chidden as I was, 
And, for a moment, silenced, I shall rain 
Pardon and life on him who would have stolen 
The mistress of my soul. She's mine ! She's mine ! 

\_Exit. 



SCENE III. 
Terrace before Halberfs Tower. 

Enter Lady Macdonald and Halbert. 

HALBERT. 

Is she so pensive still ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Alas ! in vain 
I watch to see some gleam of pleasure light 
Her mournful eyes. Save that her fingers ply 
The needle constantly, as if they wrought 
From habit of sweet motion, you might doubt 
If in her statue-like and silent beauty 
The life of this world stirr'd. 

HALBERT. 

If Henry broke 
Upon her suddenly, his harsh demeanour 
Might drive the colour from her cheeks, and scare 
Her thoughts from their repose. 



70 GLENCOE; OR, [act 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I cannot hope it ; 
She has been more serene since then. Before, 
She would pursue her work with restless hand ; 
Leave it and pace the room ; sit down and sigh, 
As if her heart were breaking ; wring her hands ; 
And then — as finding strength to chase some image 
That maddenM her away, — toss back her head, 
And smiling, urge her needle with more speed 
Than at the first. But since she spoke with Henry 
She has been calm, though sad, as one beyond 
The reach of fear or hope ; who saw her course 
And was resign'd to follow it. 

HALBERT. 

Resign'd ! 
Is that my sum of happiness ? To hold, 
As in a tyrant's grasp, a lovely form 
Subdued by its own gentleness, yet know 
That the celestial mind defies the power 
Of finest bonds, — and from the winning smile 
In which fond custom wreathes the face, escapes 
To scenes long past, or for a distant voice 
Waits listening ! I have held the gaoler's lot 
Far heavier than his captive's ; — yet how light 
His chains to those I must inflict and bear ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You wrong my lovely daughter ; — when she weds, 
Each wish, each hope, each fancy which might dim 
The brightness of her constancy, will fly 
For ever. Her affections have been tossed, 
But not perverted ; as the water keeps 
Its crystal beauty in its bed of rock, 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

Though vex'd by winds which from a cloudless sky 

Sweep o'er high mountain tarns, her soul perplex 'd 

By contrary emotions, caught no taint, 

Sunk or uplifted, but will settle, bright 

As not a breath had wreath 'd it. She will prove 

With all her soul a true wife to you, Halbert, 

Though not a blithe one. 

HALBERT. 

Do you not believe 
She will be happy soon ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

She will be tranquil ; 
But if you ask me if she will enjoy 
The happiness for which her nature 's framed, 
I cannot veil my fears. 

HALBERT. 

What should I do? 
I have known fearful heart-struggles ; but this 
Makes all seem nothing. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

There is in your soul 
A noble purpose. 

HALBERT. 

Must I give up all, 
And yet live on ? No human hope remains 
For me if this be blasted. With the fall 
Of the great objects which my youth revered, 
I lost all power to mingle in the strifes 
Of this new-modell'd world. I cannot taste 
The sweet resources Heaven, in grace, provides 
For love-lorn manhood ; thirst of fame in me 
Is quench'd ; society's miscalPd delights 



72 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv 

Would fret me into madness ; and bright war, 

The glorious refuge of despair, would seem 

A slaughterous and a mercenary trade 

To one who has no country. If I act 

The thought which fills your bosom, I must live 

Loveless and hopeless. Can you ask it, mother ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I cannot ask it. But I saw in you 
High resolution gathering, while I spoke 
Of Helen's present state, and what I fear 
'Twill be when — 

h albert (stopping her). 

Speak no more. It shall not be; 
I will make ready for the sacrifice. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My noble son ! Let me embrace you, proud 

As never Roman mother in the arms 

Of her crown'd hero. Shall I speak to Helen ? 

HALUERT. 

No — not for worlds — I cannot utter yet 
The irrevocable word. It may be still 
That you misjudge her; — or that she mistakes 
Her heart's true feeling. I will wait the morn. 

Enter Alaster Macdonald. 

ALASTER. 

My father sends me with a gracious message 
Which I rejoice to bear, though it confess 
A fault in him ; he offers you his hand, 
With frank confession he has done you wrong, 
And claims your presence at the feast he gives 
To-day to Argyle's officers. 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 73 

HALBERT. 

Dear cousin, 
I am most happy in Mac Ian's love, 
And will with earnest duty answer it; 
But I entreat him to excuse me now, 
For I am busy with sick thoughts ; unfit 
For high festivity. 

ALASTER. 

I know you hate, 
As I do, this submission ; but 'tis done ; 
No courtesies can make it deeper. Hark I 

[Distant music heard. 
The guests assemble now. 

H ALBERT. 

That music breathes 
As when I heard it first ; — in lively strain 
It vibrates on the ear, but on my soul 
Falls like a dirge. Some awful doom awaits 
Our race, and thus through sounds of this world speaks 
To the mind's ear. I will avert or share it. 
Yes; — I attend you. Mother, you will watch 
Your precious charge as if on every glance 
A life depended ? I am sure you will. 

[Exit Lady Macdonald. 
Now, Alaster, I am ready for your feast. 

\_Exeunt Halbert and Alaster. 



74 GLENCOE ; OR, [.act iv. 



SCENE IV. 

A Hall in Mac Ians House. 

A Banquet. 

Mac Ian, Angus, Donald, John Macdonald, Glen- 
lyon, Lindsay, Henry Macdonald, Officers of ArgyWs 
Regiment, and Clansmen, seated. 

mac ian (rising). 
Once more I thank you for the grace you pay 
To a fallen chief, whose name and title live 
As shadows of the past ; but who can taste 
A comfort in his downfall, while brave men 
Show, by their courteous action, they preserve 
Respect for what he has been. Let us drink 
A health to those you serve ; — the Majesties 
Of England ; whom to death I had withstood, 
Had hope for James's cause remainM ; but whom, 
That hope extinguished, I will frankly serve. 
Rise, clansmen ! Drink to William and his Queen, 
To whom we owe our duty. 

GLENLYON. 

We esteem 
The pledge at its just value. 

MAC IAN. 

I perceive 
Your thoughts still wrong me. Stoutly have I fought 
Upon King James's side ; but with Dundee 
His cause expired. I felt it when he fell, 
Lifting his arm to wave these clansmen on, 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 71 

To make his triumph sure. The menial slave, 
The household traitor, who, with felon hand, 
Stole then his noble life, destroy'd, in him, 
A line of monarchs. While the tangled woods 
Of Killikrankie rang with shrill delight 
Of our victorious Highlanders, I knew 
That we were conquer'd ; and I sheathed my sword 
For ever. 

angus {apart to Donald). 
Do you mark him ! 

DONALD. 

Yes ; his life 
Casts out its dying flash. He's doom'd. 

GLENLYON. 

You wrong 
Your gallant comrades; surely loss of one 
Might be supplied. 

MAC IAN. 

Not of a man like him. 
'Tis not in multitudes of common minds 
That by contagious impulses are sway'd, 
Like rushes in the wind, a mighty cause 
Can live ; but in the master mind of one 
Who sways them. Sooner would these glorious hills, 
If crush'd to powder, with their atoms guard 
Our glens, than million clansmen fill the place 
Of such a chief. Would I had died with him ! 
No more of this ; fill me some wine. [Drinks. 

Enter Alaster and Halbert. 

Your leave 
One moment. 

(Mac Ian comes to Halbert, and takes his hand.) 



7(5 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

MAC IAN. 

Halbert, I lack words to thank 
This kindness as I ought, 

HALBERT. 

It is a joy 
For me to know I am at peace with all, 
And, most of all, with you. 

MAC IAN. 

'Tis very strange : 
I am amazed how I could doubt your faith ; 
A film is passing from my soul, that leaves 
All clear within its vision. Take your place. 

[Halbert and Al aster sit on the opposite side of the 
hall to Glenlyon and Lindsay. 

mac ian {resuming his seat). 
Your pardon. Let us drain another cup 
To our chief guest, Glenlyon ; frank in war, 
And generous in alliance. 

halbert (to Alaster). 

Watch him now ; 
He changes ; see — his very lips are pale ; — 
I will unmask him. 

alaster. 
Pray forbear. 

glenlyon. 

Accept 

A soldier's thanks. 

halbert (to Alaster). 

His voice is choked — look now — 
Do you not see him shiver ? 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 77 

ALASTER. 

It is but fancy ; 
How can he hope to see us fall more low 
Than he has sunk us ? 

MAC IAN (to GLENLYON). 

You must pledge me now ; — 
Wine to Glenlyon. 

[Glenlyon rises — takes the cup — puts it to his lips — 
and hastily returns it. 

HALBERT. 

He does not taste the wine, 
He dares not taste it. Hold me not. 

[Breaking from Alaster. 

Glenlyon ! 
Why did you put aside the untasted cup ? 
Why did you change and glare ? Why is your heart — - 
Your hollow heart, shivering and shrinking now? 
Look on him, friends ! Mac Ian ! — Angus ! — Donald ! 
John ! — Alaster ! Does some infernal charm 
Delude you, that you rise not? 

[To Glenlyon.] Answer me ! 
What fiendish thought was yours when you withdrew 
That goblet from your lips? 

LINDSAY. 

Who's this that dares 
Insult Glenlyon ? 

HALBERT. 

Parasite, I speak not 
To such as you ! Behold him now ! He's silent. 

LINDSAY. 

In scorn. 



78 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 

[To Glenlyon. "J You will not deign to make reply 
To this coarse brawler ? Let us hence. 

glenlyon {addressing Mac Ian). 

Farewell ! 
You cannot curb the rudeness of your followers, 
Nor I endure it. 

[Glenlyon and Lindsay retiring. 

HALBERT. 

Let them not depart ; 
Not for myself I speak, — for I shall find 
No time so fit to die; but for your wives — 
Your sires — your babes — your all. Glenlyon J turn, 
If you have so much nature as to look 
The thing you dare. 

glenlyon {turning). 

Be brief in your demand. 
What is your pleasure ? 

HALBERT. 

That you spend three minutes 
With me in the cold moonlight ; — armM ; — alone. 

glenlyon. 
With you — a conquered rebel ? 

mac tan (holding Halbert). 

He's a guest 
Beneath this roof's protection. 

HALBERT. 

Let him claim 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 79 

This shelter if he dare, and I will kneel, 
And he shall trample on me. 

LINDSAY {to GLENLYON). 

Come away! 

ALASTER. 

Dear Halbert, do not risk a life so dear 
As yours is to my father. 

HALBERT. 

Risk my life — 
Dost see him ? There is that within his breast 
Would paralyse his arm, and make his knees 
Tremble, and bid the stubborn soldier fall 
Half slain without the steel ; — [ To Glenlyon. 

I charge on you 
Black treason — what I know not yet — but feel ; 
Will you confess, or meet me ? 

LINDSAY. 

Do not answer. 

GLENLYON. 

I meet you ! — Talk to me of treason ! — me 
Who bear the lawful orders of a king ; 
To whom you are a traitor ; — whom your race, 
With all the hatred of their savage thoughts, 
Abjure; — but he shall curb them — they shall feel 
His power is here. Your worthless life, rash fool, 
To-night I spare ; — but if again we meet, 
It shall be as you wish, for death. 

\_Exeunt Glenlyon, &c. 

HALBERT. 

It shall. 



80 GLENCOE; OR, Lact iv. 

MAC IAN (fo HALBERT). 

I thank your generous courage, but I look 
With wonder on your passion. 

HALBERT. 

What ! does nothing 
Whisper of peril to you ? 

MAC IAN. 

No — my heart 
Is jocund ; — stripp'd of glory, power, and name, 
We shall be all united and at peace. 

HALBERT. 

Heaven grant it ! 

ALASTER. 

I would rather die to-morrow, 
If I might choose, than hold the sweetest home 
At England's mercy. 

HALBERT. 

My brave cousin ! Blessings 
In life and death be with you. 

MAC IAN. 

Come away ; 
This sadness will infect us. There's my hand 
And my heart with it. 

ALASTER. 

And mine too. 

JOHN. 

And mine. 

MAC IAN. 

Farewell ;— no strife shall separate us more. 

[Exeunt Mac Ian, Alaster, and John. 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 81 

HALBERT. 

That's well !— 

[Sees Henry. 

My brother here ? — he wakes my soul 

To its own sufferings. Yet we must not part thus. 

Brother ! 

HENRY. 

What would you with me ? 

HALBERT. 

I would know 
We part to-night as brothers should ; you think 
That you have cause to blame me : wait awhile, 
And you may judge me better. 

HENRY. 

Blame you ? — No — 
Not I — except that you forgot to bid 
Your brother to your bridal. He '11 make bold 
To go unbidden. 

HALBERT. 

Fail not ; — you may find 
A blessing there you will be grateful for. 

henry (aside). 
Can he suspect my purpose ?— O, no doubt 
You have deserved all gratitude; — and there 
Will crown your favours. 

HALBERT. 

I will take your hand ; 
It trembles. 

HENRY. 

No ; — or if it shakes, — the night 
Chills bitterly. It will be firm to-morrow. 

[Exit Henry Macdonald. 
g 



82 GLENCOE ; OR, Tact iv. 

HALBERT. 

To-morrow ! — that will settle all — I'll seek 
My mother now ; — if she is still assured 
That Helen loves — I cannot bear the thought, 
Silence and darkness teach me to endure it ! 

[Exit Halbert Macdonald. 



END OF ACT IV. 



scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 83 



ACT V. 

Scene — A Chapel adjoining Halberfs Tower, partly in ruins, 
in which is seen the Tomb of Halberfs father. — Morning 
just breaking. 

Enter Halbert Macdonald. 

HALBERT. 

The hour approaches when my life's last hope 
Will be extinguished ; — it is quivering now 
Upon the verge of darkness ; — yet I feel 
No pang — no throb. My spirit is serene, 
As if prepared to cleave celestial air 
To passionless delights — this calm within me 
Has something awful. 

Enter Lady Macdonald. 

HALBERT. 

Mother, wish me joy. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Joy, Halbert ?— 

HALBERT. 

Yes ; — of victory achieved 
O'er the last passion which can ever rack 
My bosom. I can bear to ask you now, 
If any change in Helen raises doubt 

How she will answer, when 1 am not so arm'd 

As I have boasted. 

g 2 



Si GLENCOE; OR, [act v. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

No ; — she scarcely raised 
Her head, until her work — a bridal robe — 
Hung dazzling on her arm ; as then she sought 
Her chamber, I impressM one solemn kiss 
Upon her icy brow : then as aroused 
From stupor by poor sympathy, she threw 
Her arms around my neck ; and whispering low, 
But piercingly, conjured me to keep watch 
Upon her thinkings, lest one erring wish 
Should rise to mar her duty to her lord. 

H ALBERT. 

I ask no more, till in this holy place 

Her soul shall answer mine ; too well I know 

The issue ; yet I shrink not, nor repine. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Your calmness frightens me; you think of death. 

HALBERT. 

But as a thing to sigh for, not to seek ; 
I never will forsake you for the grave, 
Till Heaven dismiss me thither. Has she slept ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I know not; but her chamber has been still, 
Until, on notice of the priest arrived 
She sent to pray the guidance of his arm 
To lead her to this place. 

IIAI.BERT. 

The priest arrived ! 
O what a world of happiness these words 
Should indicate. It opens now to show 
Its glories melting into air. They come — 
Her step is heavy ; may the heart that sways it 
Go lighter hence ! 



scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 85 

Enter the Priest, leading Helen, in bridal attire. 

halbert {meeting them). 

Before a solemn change 

Shall pass on our condition, let me claim 

One kiss, in memory of the wintry paths 

Which we have walked with purity of heart 

And heaven-ward aspect } — should death take us now, 

It had no terrors. 

[Kisses Helen's forehead. 

PRIEST. 

Sir, your words are sad 
For such an hour. Shall we begin the service ? 

HALBERT. 

We wait my brother's presence. 

HELEN. 

O not his ! 
I am quite ready ; let the rite proceed. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 

HALBERT. 

You are most welcome ; — we have waited for you. 

hfnry {looking eagerly round). 
Your pardon ; all are not assembled yet. 
Where is Glenlyon ? 

HALBERT. 

Who? 

HENRY. 

The lady's uncle ; 
He has, no doubt, approved her choice, and means 
To grace the ceremonial. \ r ou will wait 
His coming? 



86 GLENCOE ; OR, [act v 

H ALBERT. 

He resign'd this lovely one 
To those who knew her worth ; he shall not now 
Infest the roof that shelters her. 

henry {aside). 

All lost ! 
What can detain him ? 

PRIEST. 

Shall the rite proceed ? 

HALBERT. 

I have a few momentous words to speak 
Before the rites begin ; — to you, fair Helen, 
I must address them ; but I pray my brother, 
Whom they touch nearly, to attend. 

henry. 

I listen. 

HALBERT. 

How, through sad years, the consecrated joy 
Which seems to wait me at this hour, has dawn'd 
And brighten'd, from its first uncertain rays 
Along the rugged pathway of a life 
Else unadorn'd, my passion-fever'd speech 
Has shown ; — nor less divine the vision glows 
Now it stands clear before me, and invites 
To mingle heaven with earth. You cannot doubt it. 

HELEN. 

Never ;— I only wish I could dsserve 
A love like yours. 

HALBERT. 

Yet ere I grasp this dream, 
And make its phantoms real ; — within these walls 
By both revered ; — where side by side we knelt 



scene] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 87 

In infantine humility, and faith 

No question ruffled ; where your spirit sought 

To cast from its pure mirror, each faint cloud 

Which jocund thoughts might breathe, or nicest fear 

Imagine to o'erspread it; — at the tomb 

Of him who watches o'er his trembling son, 

At this dread crisis of his fate ; — I ask you — 

Explore your heart ; and if you find a wish 

That glances at another fortune, speak it! 

HELEN. 

Have mercy on me ! 

HALBERT. 

You have seen me chafed 
By passion worse than aimless in a soul 
Whose destinies are fashion^ by a Power 
Wise, bountiful, resistless ; — and the words 
Such frenzy dashes with its foam might seem 
To urge that one unlike myself must prove 
Unfit for your affection. Hear me now, 
When calmer reason governs me ! There stands 
One near to me in blood ; a soldier, valiant, 
And raised above all baseness ; in the bloom 
And gladness of his youth ; who loves you —not 
Perchance as I do — but who loves you well ; — 
You are a soldiers child ; — your noble heart 
May from most natural impulse turn to one 
EndowM and graced as he is ; — if I read 
Your wish aright; — I'll join this hand with his, — 
As freely as I would relinquish life 
To succour yours. 

helen {sinking on her knee before H albert). 
Heaven bless you ! 



88 GLENCOE; OR, [act v. 

halbert {raising Helen). 

Tis enough ; 
Now let me draw this ring away — 'tis done — 
You'll let me wear it for a little time — 
A very little time ? Come, Henry, —take 
This hand, with the deep blessing of a man 
Whose all is given with it. 

[Takes Henry's hand to join it to Helen's. 
Henry stands abstracted. 

H ALBERT. 

You are cold — 
Your thoughts are far away; — a blackness spreads 
Across your face ; speak to us ! 

HELEN. 

He is stricken 
With wonder at your goodness. Henry ; Love ! 
Join me to bless your brother. 

HENRY. 

Will no bolt 
From heaven fall on this head ! 

HELEN. 

His senses wander, 
Scared at this sudden happiness ; — anon 
All will be well. [Grasps his arm. 

HENRY. 

O never ! — do not gaze 
Upon me ; — Helen, touch me not ; — fly all. 

HALBERT. 

Wherefore ? From whom ? 

HENRY. 

O God ! I cannot tell it. 
[A confused cry heard far in the Valley below. 



scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS, 89 

HALBEBT. 



What cry is that 



Not death ! 



LADY MACDONALD. 

The shrieks of death arise. 

HENRY. 

Enter Angus. 



ANGUS. 

Fly for your lives ; our cherish'd guests 
Have fall'n upon the clansmen wrapp'd in sleep 
With murderous swords; and burning hovels light 
Their slaughterous way. 

HENRY. 

'Tis false. 

ANGUS. 

False ! Hark ! Behold ! 

[Another cry heard more distinctly from the 
Valley ', and the ylare of distant fire seen» 

HENRY. 

O misery ! I meant not this. 

H ALBERT. 

You! 
Enter Alaster Macdonald, wounded. 

ALASTER. 

Cousin — 
H albert — I've struggled through the ranks of death 
Dying to cry for justice. A few moments — 
And my poor life expended, you will bear 
The Chieftain's sword. 

HALBERT. 

Where is your Father 2 



90 GLENCOE ; OR, [act v. 

ALASTER. 

Slain. 

HALBERT. 

And John ? 

ALASTER. 

Both murder'd in their sleep. I cry 
For justice on the head of him who ranged 
The assassins. Hear me ! I would kneel indeed 
But my joints stiffen. 

HALBERT. 

Where 's the traitor ? 

Alaster (looking round, sees Henry and exclaims). 

There ! 

[Falls lifeless into the arms of the Priest, who bears him 
out. 

HALBERT. 

My most unhappy brother ! 

priest (returning). 

He has passed. 

HALBERT. 

And I am Chief! This is the fatal hour 
That Moina saw. 

[Angus and Attendants kneel to Halbert. 
Ancestral shades, I see 
You beckon in yon flame. Let me sit here ; 
The grave will serve. Where does the doomed man stand ? 

henry. 
Here ! Chief of the Macdonalds, let my blood 
Atone my crime — it was not this — I meant 
But your disgrace. How little did I know 
The heart I meant to grieve ! Strike ! vindicate 
The ancient power, which perishes while thus 



scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 91 

I pray to be its victim. Do you hear ? 

[Renewed cries from the Valley. 

Release me from those cries ; give me one look 
Of love, and end me. 

HALBERT. 

Will none plead for him ? 

HELEN. 

It was for me. [_To Lady Macdonald. 

Plead for your son. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I plead 
For him who, plotting infamy, has brought 
Death on our race ! All things around me plead 
Against him ; and that wail is fraught with shrieks 
Of mothers, who, with death's convulsions, strive 
In vain to shield their infants — such as he 
Was once — as innocent, as blithe, as fair. 

Henry ! Henry ! could I die for you ! 

[Lady MACDONALDya//s on his neck. Another cry heard. 
She starts away. Helen sinks on her knees beside the 
Tomb. 

HENRY. 

1 'm ready. 

HALBERT. 

There ! — without. 

HENRY. 

I '11 wait you there. 

HALBERT, 

Will Heaven vouchsafe no refuge? 

[As he raises his arms in supplication, a shot strikes him; 
he falls. 



02 GLENCOE ; OR, [act v. 

That is well. 
Mercy, Most Merciful ! — I am absolved. 

Enter Glenlyon. 

GLENLYON. 

Am I too late ? My niece 

HELEN. 

Away ! away ! 
henry {rushing on Glenlyon). 
Die, murderer! 

LADY MACDONALD (stops Ms arm). 

Let him live. Glenlyon, 
I pray you may have life stretch'd out beyond 
The common span of mortals, to endure 
The curse of Glencoe cleaving to your soul. 

HELEN. 

Amen ! 

GLENLYON. 

It is upon me, yet I will preserve you. 

HALBEltT. 

Leave us to die. 

Enter Drummond. 

DRUMMOND. 

I seek Glenlyon here. 
The eastern pass is open ; Duncanson 
Has not arrived : that way the clansmen fly. 

GLENLYON. 

Heaven speed them ! [Exit Glenlyon* 

HENRY. 

Then will I oppose this breast 



scene.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 93 

To the pursuing demons, till I win 

The death I thirst for. [Exit Henry. 

HELEN. 

Henry ! 

[Sinks on the ground. 

HALBERT. 

There is comfort ; 

Raise me to clasp my mother. You will pray 

For Henry ; — and will find a child in her 

Whom mercy spares this moment. 

[To the Priest. 

To your charge 
I leave the gathering of my scanty fortune, 
Which will provide a refuge for these sad ones 
In some small convent, where they'll weep out life. 
Will you do this ? 

PRIEST. 

I will. 

HALBERT. 

Bless you ! I mark 
The face which gazed in pity on my rage 
Beside my father's death-bed : — 'tis subdued — 
Hush'd — conquerd — pardon'd — and I die in peace. 

[Dies. 



END OF THE PLAY. 



NOTES. 



" Frank disdain 
Of dull existence 2thich had faintly gleam d 
Like yonder Serpent river, through dark rocks 
Which bury it."— p. 32. 

The Serpent River is a rapid mountain stream on the north side of 
Loch Leven, which after a fall of about twenty feet, rushes through a 
series of overhanging rocks, like natural arches, through which thp 
rapid water below can be scarcely discerned. 

" No broad lake 
Studded with island woods, which make the soul 
Effeminate with richness, like the scenes 
In which the baffled Campbells hid their shame, 
And scorn* d their distant foes, ," — p. 33. 

These lines refer to the charge which the enemies of the Campbells 
used to urge against them, that when beaten from the borders of Loch 
Finne, they found shelter on the shores and in the islands of Loch 
Awe, and defied their foes to follow them, by the proverb, " It is a far 
cry to Loch Awe." Perhaps Loch Awe embraces or borders on the 
most lovely scenery in the Highlands, and Glencoe is embedded in that 
which is the most sublime. 

" We were charm? d, 
Not awe-struck; — for The Beautiful was there 
Triumphant in its palace, ," — p. 57. 



9G NOTES. 

In seeking to embody in this passage, the author's impression of the 
Cave of Fingal, in Staffa, he is aware that it differs from that which all 
the descriptions he has read of the same scene convey. All suggest 
far greater dimensions — a hollow fa*r more vast and awful, but less 
exquisite in beauty, than to his eye the reality justifies. " Compared 
to this (it has been said) what are the cathedrals or the palaces built 
by men ? — mere models or playthings ;— imitative or diminutive as his 
works will always be when compared with those of nature." Accord- 
ing to the author's recollection, the cave would be more fitly compared 
to a narrow aisle of a great cathedral, fashioned with nicest art, and 
embellished with the most florid sculpture, than represented as some- 
thing immeasurably greater than the cathedral itself ; and the actual 
admeasurement of the cave will rather accord with this impression, than 
with that which is more popular. The height of the top of the arch 
above the water at mean tide is sixty-six feet ; the breadth at the en- 
trance forty-two feet ; whence it contracts during its length of two 
hundred and twenty-seven feet, until at the extremity it is only twenty- 
two feet in width ; and the roof descends in nearly the same propor- 
tion. When it is further recollected that even this width is narrowed 
to the eye by the row of exquisite columns which continue on the 
northern side, and along which the adventurer may step, and that a 
slight bend about half way breaks its uniformity, perhaps he will be 
pardoned for thinking that there has been much exaggeration in attri- 
buting the grandeur which arises from space and gloom to this wonder- 
ful cavern. On the other hand, justice has not been done— indeed, 
never can be done by words— to the fairy loveliness of the scene,— the 
delicate colour of the water,— the grace of the columns,— the elegance 
of the arched roof, and the blue serenity of the distant sea, as seen 
from beneath it. 

" The order is to guard the avenues 
To-night, and ere the morning, put in force 
The Royal ordinance on the lives of all 
Below the age of seventy." — p. 66. 

The following is the despatch which Duncanson sent, and on which 
Glenlyon acted. It was addressed, 



NOTES. 97 

" For their Majesties' Service, to Captain Robert Campbell, 
of Glenlyon. 

" You are hereby ordered to Fall upon the rebels, and put all to the 
sword under 70 ; — you are to have special care that the old fox and 
his cubs do on no account escape your hands ; — you are to secure all 
the avenues, that no man escape. This you are to put in execution at 
four in the morning precisely, and by that time, or very shortly after, I 
will strive to be at you with a stronger party ; but if I do not come to 
you at four, you are not to tarry for me, but fall on. This is by the 
king's special command, for the good and safety of the country, that 
these miscreants be cut off root and branch. See that this is put 
in execution without either fear or favour, else you may expect to be 
treated as not true to the king or government, nor a fit man to carry a 
commission in the king's service. Expecting that you will not fail in 
the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself, I subscribe these with 
my hand. 

" Robert Duncan son." 



" Stoutly have [fought 
Upon King James's side ; but with Dundee 
His cause expired." — p. 74. 

" Dundee himself," says Sir Walter Scott, " contrary to the advice of 
the Highland chiefs, was in the front of the battle, and fatally con- 
spicuous. Observing the stand made by two English regiments, he 
galloped towards the clan of Macdonald, and was in the act of bringing 
them to the charge, with his right arm elevated, as if pointing the way 
to victory, when he was struck by a bullet beneath the armpit, where he 
was unprotected by the cuirass. He tried to ride on, but being unable 
to keep the saddle, fell mortally wounded, and died in the course of 
that night. Such was the general opinion of his talents and courage, 
and the general sense of the peculiar crisis at which his death took 
place, that the common people of the low country cannot even now be 
persuaded that he died an ordinary death. They say that a servant of 
his own, shocked at the severities which, if triumphant, his master was 
likely to accomplish against the Presbyterians, and giving way to the 
popular prejudice of his having a charm against the effect of leaden 
balls, shot him in the tumult of the battle with a silver button taken from 



93 NOTES. 

his livery coat. The Jacobites and Episcopalian party, on the other 
hand, lamented the deceased victor as the last of the Scots, the last of 
the Grahams, and the last of all that was great in his native country." — 
Talcs of a Grandfather, chap. 56. 

Sir Walter Scott says, — " Claverhouse's sword, a straight cut-and- 
thrust blade, is [1802] in the possession of Lord Woodhouselee; and the 
buff coat which he wore at the battle of Killicrankie, having the fatal 
shot-hole under the armpit of it, is preserved in Pennycuick-house, the 
seat of Sir George Clerk, Baronet." — Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii. p. 45; 
Note to Tales of a Grandfather, vol. ii. 114. 



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